Taming the hazel-eyed monster.

Everyone has certain personality traits they aren't proud of.  Mine is jealousy.  Whether it became part of my nature organically, or grew there from the seed of the ever so slight sense of entitlement my mother unwittingly nurtured by making my room look like Toyworld to make up for the fact that I was an only child, the hazel-eyed monster has been with me for as long as I can remember.  It lays dormant most of the time, now that I am a (ahem) 'responsible adult' (snort), but there are still occasions when it threatens to come out of hibernation.  Engagement parties and weddings, births, and couples over the age of eighteen showing public displays of affection are occasions when the climate is particularly well suited to the re-emergence of the creature of covetousness.

While I might look happy outwardly, holding my champagne glass aloft and toasting the happy couple alongside a hundred or so other close friends and family, inside I'm wondering when the damn speeches are going to be over so I can get to piling my plate full of comfort food from the buffet table.  While friends of the bride speculate in hushed tones as to what the groom had to hock to buy her a rock that big on his salary, I'm standing there thinking It could have come from a Kinder Surprise for all I care, point is, she has a man who worships the ground she walks on and all I'll be going home with is a purse full of canopes.  My mother's habit of bailing up mums in shopping centres and enquiring as to their baby's name, weight and sleep patterns is usually endearing, if a little embarrassing.  At the wrong time of the month however, a time I like to call 'Oestrogen Equinox,' my mind wanders back to when my son was a velvet-complexioned cherub whose face lit up whenever I entered the room.  The sight of people holding hands and looking at each other starry-eyed brings home the realisation that the last man to look at me like that was in his early sixties, and he wasn't looking me in the eye (see 'The dirty and the indifferent').  At times like these, I find that the best course of action is to focus on the positives.  Having no fiancee means I won't have to do eighty sit-ups a day in order to fit into a dress I'll only wear once.  Having no husband means I won't have to play referee between family members who will only sit in the same room for weddings and funerals.  And having no more kids means that it won't be long until my weekends are mine again.

I really do want to fall in love again, but coveting what other people have is like holding a Weight Watchers meeting at Pizza Hut; all you come out with at the end is guilt, depression and three kilos that you need about as much as an extra uvula.  Jealousy is the Big Brother of emotions; it serves no useful purpose other than to debase and humiliate people, making them ponder doing unspeakable things in order to win a prize they only value when they see other so-called winners.  To sum up, my advice the next time you feel a twinge of envy working its way out is to get the hell over it and change the channel.                                              

The gravity of my situation.

Ever get the feeling you might be the punchline in a great cosmic joke?  Well, a less than stellar Friday evening out lead me to conclude that someone, somewhere was pissing themselves laughing at my expense.  Just over a week ago, I was celebrating the one year anniversary of my last real date when my friend Corrina called.  After somehow managing to decipher what I was saying between sobs, she suggested that we go out the following weekend.  It was with a healthy mixture of excitement, nervousness and hormone-induced enthusiasm that I went with her to a well known Irish pub in the city.  Alas, despite the fact that the male to female ratio was for once in our favour, and that roughly seventy per cent of said males looked like they had just returned from an NCIS L.A audition, the two of us were about as popular as a keg full of lemonade at a Hells Angels mixer.  This was largely to do with the fact that our competition was embryonic go-go dancers with enough disposable income to afford all the ten dollar beers they could drink, and designer t-shirts with necklines somewhere south of Hell. 

I was ranting about this the next day, quietly so as not to aggravate the angry hunchback who was playing a hardcore rock opera on church bells inside my head, when Corrina astutely pointed out that the Kardashian clones we encountered at the tavern were not too dissimilar to ourselves at the same age.  We too once knew the joys of being able to walk into a bar and have several dozen pairs of eyes on us.  We too once felt the sting of women in their thirties burning holes into our backs with their death stares as we sat on the laps of men who were more their intellectual equivalent than our own.  We too once laughed at those women, secure in the knowledge that we wouldn't need to hang out in bars by the time we got that old. 

As usual, Corrina had managed to take my scattered ravings and put them into perspective for me, and for that I thank her.  And to the lovely creature who thought it would be hysterical to 'accidentally' knock me out of the way on the dance floor, I bare no grudge, and would like to offer the following piece of advice.  Should one of those men whose laps you warm so well put a ring on your finger, be sure that he is interested in you for more than just your Daisy Duke clad behind.  With no husband to distract her, this single thirty something has a lot more workout time these days, and Gravity, like karma, is a bitch.