Malignant Jealousy and Other Follies

 

Jealousy is something that we all deal with and experience. It is, as Shakespeare said, the green eye’d monster. Stemming from a discussion this morning, I think that there are two kinds of jealous: one banal and one that is very malignant.

 Banal Jealousy:

Someone gets a [new tv, car, pair of shoes, boyfriend/girlfriend, job, or promotion]. You are happy for them and their successes, but you have a pang – something that says, “Man, I wish that were me.” But you do not begin plotting their doom. You do not let it consume you. You do not start hunting around for the Aunts from Practical Magic to curse the person. (Not that they’d do that, mind you.)

 Malignant Jealousy:

Same scenario as list above, except that the event makes you FERAL. You resent this person for their happiness or achievement. You begin to mutter about how they don’t deserve it – how it should have been you. Then you credit the event to one of two things: connections or looks. So, it’s all because the person knows the right people and/or has a nice ass. (Yeah, I said it.)

Here’s the thing: I understand Banal Jealousy. I do not understand Malignant Jealousy. For one thing, the person it affects the most? The person who is jealous. It is, as Carrie Fisher said, like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. (Great phrasing.) It doesn’t serve a purpose. Instead, it steals from you. It steals hope. It is an excuse to stop trying.

This morning, someone attributed success to beauty. Not a combination of things, mind you – beauty alone. Not hard work, talent, perseverance, strength of will, or anything else. Just beauty. And, quite frankly, it made me angry.

You can be the prettiest person in the world, but still be dumb as a post. You cannot invalidate, or remove, someone’s hard work – simply based on looks. That’s absurd. And it reeks of the kind of envy that cripples, because it shows a lack of humanity. In its place, there is a rabid form of resentment and disgust – it is a mantra of, “Why me? If I were [taller, prettier, blonder etc], it would have been ME!”

Let me tell you a story, ok? When I was in high school, a friend’s family had a friend visiting from Australia. I cannot remember his name at the moment, so we’ll just call him Dave. Dave had the benefit of being hot. He had a stellar accent. He was absolutely lovely to look at. At first, I had a crush on him. I mean, who wouldn’t? But then…an hour into hanging out at my friend’s house, and I quickly realized…he was flaming asshole. Conceited, arrogant, and pretty much a jerk – it was very disappointing. I spent two days at their house, and that was enough time to realize that he may be pretty, but he was lacking in substance.

Here’s a confession: I don’t think of myself as pretty. It’s not who I am. Right now, I could pick at least a dozen things I don’t like about myself. I can tell you about how I was chunky in high school, how I had buck teeth as a kid (and was made fun of), and I can tell you how someone I had a crush on my sophomore year told me that I was fat. Worse, that he would date me…if I were thinner. That really messed me up for a while.

But I can’t tell you how many times someone has dismissed me because they think I’m attractive. For a job, I walked into a meeting with a man (who I knew, previously) who was showing me around. We ran into someone we mutually knew, who quipped, “Gee, I didn’t know I was supposed to bring a date.” I was later told that I got the job, because I was pretty – and not because I’d approached the person in charge with a proposal and a business plan.

The truth is…it’s frustrating to be dismissed or overlooked for ANY reason. It sucks. It hurts. But it happens. You walk it off, because you don’t win by giving up and blaming the world. It doesn’t serve you. It is like chaining yourself to a refrigerator, jumping in the ocean – and blaming the ocean for drowning you.

I’ve been jealous of people, relationships, promotions, and other writers. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read a sentence and said, “Damn, I wish I wrote that.” But it’s not murderous, rabid, bunny-boiling jealousy. It’s a fleeting thing. A pang.