Dear Mr. UPS Guy,

Your delivery vehicle screeched.

And you made your decision in five seconds. Seriously, five seconds.

The back story: 1997, the city. *Stacia and I both lived in the same area, and we were walking to a restaurant.

Stacia, a former aspiring model. Long, dark wavy hair. Brown eyes with a hint of honey. High cheekbones. The ability to strut in four-inch heels at 5′ 5″. We were the same height, but at the time, I’d piled on an extra couple of few pounds.

Stacia was a petite hourglass. I was a pudgy pear. Getting plumper with each doughnut. It was the “Freshman 15.”

Okay, technically, I withdrew in my freshman year, but give me something. Preferably covered with chocolate.

You, Mr. UPS Guy, drove passed Stacia and I, and you burned holes in your tires trying to stop. Seriously, dude. We were on our way for supper. You were slowing us down, and I was really hungry.

But as the sun set over your shoulder, you flagged us to stop and ran to us.

“Hey,” as you approached, clad in brown shorts and matching hat. “Hey, wait.”

You were clearly out of breath as you sized both of us. Left then right. Left, then right again.

Then up and down? Was this legit? Then came the awkwardness of all awkwardnesses:

UPS Guy: “Can I have your number?”

Stacia: “Um … ”

UPS Guy: “Please.”

Stacia to Tessa: “You okay with–”

Me: “It’s fine.”

UPS Guy: “Sorry, but–” motioning to Stacia.

Me: “It’s fine.”

No. Nothing about that exchange was fine! I was judged like a side of beef. And discarded like a napkin.

Props to Stacia who tried to make me feel better.

“He probably won’t call,” she said. “And if he does, I won’t go out with him.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “How much further is this restaurant?”

I’d love to say, the joke’s on you, Mr. UPS Guy, because by that New Year’s Eve, I lost 25 lbs. So there. Ha! *Dust off the hands*

But, losing weight doesn’t make you a prettier, better or happier person. Or make other people like you for the right reasons.

You chose Stacia over me. Knowing nothing except her hair and eye colour and the fact she’s gorgeous. You deemed me unworthy, or icky, or just “no” because I was heavier. And that I wasn’t Stacia. What if Stacia was an stalker or horrible person, and I said, “Fine,” because I wanted you to be her next victim.

Whatever. Stacia’s an awesome Aquarius. But you’re not her present Mr. to her Ms., Mr. UPS Guy.

However, that spring day in 1997, Stacia and I were judged solely by appearance. Not our astrological signs. We never entered that competition, and that’s not cool.

And I’m not saying I’ve never fallen for someone based on their looks. But you judged Stacia and I – side-by-side – meat market comparison-style.

And that sure as hell isn’t fine.