Jealousy

I really love reading Sundry’s posts about achieving her goals and doing what scares her. I think it’s ridiculously awesome, and if that’s not creating a life with no regrets, I don’t know what is. I just think she’s spectacular for doing all of it, and the thrill of seeing her do it is … well, it’s absurdly heartwarming, is what it is, and I mean that it the most admiring, earnest way possible. How fucking COOL is that, to set out to do something and do it, changing your whole life in the process?

I wish I could say I was inspired, but to be honest, I’ve done little in the way of goal-achieving for a while now, unless those goals include “keeping child alive” and “paying bills on time.” Occasionally, I’ll think to myself that some day I’ll get there and start expanding my horizons, and I beat myself up for about a minute, thinking GOD, I hardly do ANYTHING and then …

Well, then today I took some time to really think about it, and I realized that I am absurdly, stupidly happy with the way my life is right now. If you’d asked me ten years ago if this was the life I wanted, I’m not sure I would have been able to say yes. I think back then I wanted to stay in the city, be a vice president of something corporate and important-sounding and have an impeccable wardrobe of expensive suits. I did not see living in rural Vermont with my husband and small daughter and, of all things, staying home with her. I did not, I assure you. The life I have now is the life I spent years raging against, writing entry after angst-filled entry in my journal about how I was going to BE SOMEONE and not give it all up for a family. A family would only weigh me down, yo.

And after all THAT, I realized that I’ve already DONE the thing that scares me the most, and she’s in her crib, half-asleep in frog pajamas right now (Tom Robbins? Anyone?), and the rest, to a certain degree, is just gravy. Having done that, and having it worked out, means that I’m confident enough to be able to go after everything else. I know, I know, it sounds like my child is the be-all, end-all of personal fulfillment, and behold, I am some sort of crazy-ass earth mother type who never knew life before having a child, but that’s not really what I’m saying at all. Like, at all. I swear.

I still have things I want to do — I want to get back to exercising and write more for actual money and yes, like everyone else, finally finish that book I’ve been planning on writing, and oh yes, I want to have another child, yes — and while some of those things scare me, I’m more confident than ever that I’ll do them, and I’m actually excited about doing them. And after all that, too, having the life you want — even if it’s not the life you planned — is pretty fucking awesome, and if that’s not goal achievement, however fluid, I’m not sure what else it could be.

***

This brings me, weirdly, to a rant I’ve been going on about all OVER the Internet, which is, yet again, fracking women can’t disagree about anything or see something as wrong without being accused of being just jealous. It’s just … well, it’s just plain stupid, is what it is, because there are a lot of things I find distasteful, but I’m not envious of them. I don’t like George W. Bush, for example, and back in the day, I could get quite heated about him. And yet, I think it goes without saying that I didn’t want to be him, nor was I particularly envious of his life. I mean, right?

I’m not perfect. I am capable of envy. But it usually doesn’t manifest itself in petty, mean comments and it doesn’t manifest itself in calling something out as wrong — if something is wrong, it doesn’t mean I somehow covet it. Jealousy, for me, is an easy thing to admit, and it usually manifests itself in a simple statement of, “Damn, I wish I could be in the Caribbean right now, too,” or, “GodDAMN, why do I look like shit with long hair? Her hair is BEAUTIFUL.” or, “WHY AM I NOT BEYONCE?”

And though I am generally a good person, I am also capable of being petty. I am capable of schadenfreude, and even really get off on it from time to time. I make fun of people, sometimes meanly, and I can be crueler than I’d like to admit. I can be a judgmental asshole sometimes. But all of that is rarely fueled by jealousy. I can be a douchebag in my own right, for no reason other than I’m being a douchebag. Just like, say, a man can.

***

A few weeks ago, I came across a perfect, giant, blushing green apple just outside our condo. I picked it up and brought it inside and honest to pete, I had plans to eat it. And then I realized that I’d picked it up in our parking lot, you know, UNDER A CAR. And that eating found fruit is generally a bad idea, and for chrissake, did I not READ Snow White as a child? WTF.

***

Hey, are you reading Style Lush? I have to tell you, it’s one of my favorite places on the web, and I don’t think it’s just because I’m part of it. The stuff on there is just! so! cool! I want all of it. ALLL OF ITTTTT. Except that we’re kind of watching our wallets right now, which makes me very sad. I will never get that perfect fall dress, scarf or pile of fake food I’ve always wanted. Boo.

Polite Fictions is ALSO going strong, although even I’m having trouble keeping up with the story at this point, which makes it an especially hilarious exercise when it’s my turn. I’m all, let’s write about this character! Unless he’s dead! Wait, let’s make him a ZOMBIE. I … I don’t know what’s going on with me there.

Happy Wednesday!

*The version I’m thinking of is the Pet Shop Boys. But I’m sure there are a legion.

20 comments October 13th, 2009