Urban Drool

Last night the Boy and I were getting drunk on some very nice red wine and watching “Moonstruck.”

Don’t snigger, it was Valentine’s Day, alright?

I think the breadth and shiny-ness of Nicholas Cage’s torso stunned the Boy into an introspective frame of mind and he and I began entertaining the notion that we would not have been attracted to one another and ended up together, had the circumstances surrounding our initial…assignation not been quite so dramatic and forbidden.

Put more simply: people want what they cannot have and jealously and forbidden fruit created a scenario where two people, who wouldn’t normally fall in love, fell in love.

(for the record, the Boy believes that this was the case with the two of us, and I vehemently disagree)

That aside, it actually started a train wreck of a stream of thought for me over the past 18 hours, and I find myself thinking a lot about the concept of envy. Jealousy. Coveting.

I am beginning to suspect that, at heart, I am a bitterly jealous person.

I want what I do not and/or cannot and/or will not and never will have.

I see a picture of a former law school pal on a website of a very prominent law firm. She’s a fabulously successful associate. I think to myself “I want that…LOOK at her. She passed the Bar and was able to get a snug little spot on the fast track to wealth and prestige.”

I chat on the phone with my good friend Mya’s Mommy, who works 3 days a week and is able to stay at home with her baby girl the other 4 days in a row and able to do a little shopping and go to Gymboree classes, etc and I hang up the phone and sit there and think “Damn, I want that awesome schedule where she can bring in some decent money for her household and still keep up a great stretch of days with her daughter every week.”

A friend from high school recently sent me her MySpace page and I found myself face to face with pictures of a girl who, despite the fact that she was way out of shape and much bigger than I in High School, is now a totally svelte and awesomely groomed hot chick. Single and living in Manhattan, she obviously has the time and money to spend on herself and DAMN it shows. I think to myself how awesome it must be to have that kind of luxury and to look that GOOD.

…and so it goes on. I envy moms with school age kids for not having to deal with screaming babies who insist on still nursing 23 times a night and can instead go to silly and fun 2nd grade Valentine’s Day parties, I envy brand new moms, complete with cracked nipples and unkempt hair, for being in that bliss-nirvana-dreamlike state of mind that comes with the first couple weeks after your baby is born. My sister, the Fulbright scholar, is living in Belgium for the year and spending time with International friends and drinking beer at a convent in Bruge and taking weekend trips to Paris, while I sit here in Cleveland, Ohio trying to figure out how to pay my electric bill. I envy my husband who spends his time refreshing his acting resume and talking on the phone with the Artistic Director of a regional Shakespeare Festival and planning auditions and networking and loving his career in the dramatic arts. I envy my friend here at work, who is single and goes out to cool bars and restaurants most nights of the week and can afford to spend money on funky jewelry and always looks so put together, when there is cat hair on my pants and my hair smells like the baby barfed up lasagna and grilled salmon on me last night (which she in fact did).

And I really hate to be so repetitious here about the whole “bad birth blah blah” thing, but every time, EVERY TIME, someone tells me about someone they know who “just had their first baby and MAN she was just in and out of that hospital! 5 hours of labor and she only pushed for 35 minutes! 9 lbs, 3 oz and she DIDN’T EVEN TEAR! ISN’T THAT JUST SWELL?!?!?!”

The hot little nugget of envy and anger, envy about someone else’s good fortune, just blooms up inside me and makes me see stars.

Nice, huh?

I think you get my point. It’s terrible to contemplate, really, but I am finding myself thinking the most uncharitable thoughts about folks who are doing nothing more than living their own lives. It’s not that I wish them ill in any way. It’s not even that I dislike the fact that they are so blessed/lucky/whatever you want to call it.

It’s just that, I want it TOO. I want to be a successful associate making $110,000 a year, who also gets to be a stay at home mom. I want to have a fun little 8 year old kid who needs to be driven around to Girl Scouts and soccer practice and I’m the cool room mom at her school who helps coordinate the holiday parties but I also want a newborn baby again. I want to travel through Western Europe and make my mark on the International scene but never have to leave the comfort of my home. I want to fit back into my size 7 jeans and have silky soft hair and skin and cool earrings and perfectly coordinated outfits, but still be able to eat a whole pizza and ½ a pan of brownies for dinner.

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Erg. I just went back and read what I have written, and damn. It seems a bratty little 13 year old girl has invaded my soul today and spewed all over my blog.

Sorry. I am now kind of embarrassed.

This whole think makes me sound really ungrateful and petty, and I don’t mean for it to be. I have an awesome life. I have a beautiful, healthy baby and a great husband and family that loves me and a house and good TV and a great espresso machine.

But despite all that, it’s really easy to fall into the mind-trap of feeling like you are constantly being shit upon.

OK, I feel better now. I’m going to post this monstrosity of an entry, even though I’m pretty mortified by my own thoughts.

The End.