Jealousy is an emotion that comes a little too easily sometimes, and I am, ironically enough, jealous of those who can actually stave it off or who seldom feel the stirrings of being covetous.
Is it jealousy? Or is it envy? Or maybe, it is greed? Or is it a mere human compensation, in the order of breathing through one’s mouth when it’s impossible to do so through your nose– an invariable reaction to the course of something, rather than an ingrained trait or emotion.
I don’t covet dresses –though I have coveted on occasion the way a woman looks lovely and at ease in a dress that is nicely cut. One that flatters her figure, is in a nice color and doesn’t bunch up in between the legs when she takes a step.
I don’t covet many children –apart from mine, that is. But sometimes I can’t help but marvel at the ease with which a mother or a loving nanny will dote on all her charges, and the way they all laugh and play and fight together.
I don’t covet friends –though I have some and I hope they know I appreciate them. But there are times when I watch a group of people I don’t know laughing easily and being way too loud and having fun, looking like a TV commercial and lingering somewhere long, and I wonder what it must be like to be one of them and to have those friends.
I don’t covet many things –I’m fortunate to have what many people, in turn, might think of as a wonderful and enriching life and a great family.
But I can’t help but sometimes wonder what it would be all like, if it all were different: if I were thinner or prettier or bolder or more popular or not married/reproduced; if I were the sparkling laughter that draws a crowd; or the brash and brassy sassy girl who is a bit of a slut; if I were the perennial networking person who knows everyone and whom everyone knows; if I were the always-ready, always-in-control woman who never has a hair out of place.
I guess the short answer is that I wouldn’t be who I am.
But I wonder if I would be there, sitting on the edge of the looking-glass, wishing I were me.