It is not often that I feel “less than” or insecure in the presence of another woman. Don’t get me wrong; I’m by no means satisfied with my looks, and I have a list of issues to address. But, typically, I feel at ease in my own skin and unthreatened.
But, when I saw her, I felt otherwise.
I was playing Blackjack in Vegas, and she plopped down in the seat between me and her husband. The first thing I noticed about her profile was her glossy, curled lips over a gummy, white smile. Next, I took in her freshly blown out, thick mane of dark hair and Chanel diamond studded heels with pointy toes. They were perched on the bronze foot rail of her chair, glistening next to the matte cream color sneakers that I was sporting.
I complimented her on her hair and asked if she had gotten a blowout in the hotel’s salon. This is something I do: engage in conversation with others and give praise, solidifying I am not threatened by a flawless physique.
She turned to me for a brief second and said she didn’t, and then placed her delicate, tiny wrist against the green felt and tapped her ballet pink manicured finger twice, indicating to the dealer to draw another card.
I studied her movements, her clothes, her wannabe witty quips. I pretended to focus on my hand, when in fact I was focused on hers, literally– and the unusual rose gold engagement ring with four baguettes aligned in a solid row, like constellations.
When her husband won a round, she joked, indicating that she had put “a lot on hold” in the hotel’s designer stores: Balmain, Louis Vuitton, and Prada. This was the second reference she made to shopping, something she apparently enjoyed.
I tapped the green felt for another card with my chipped fingernail, peeling at the tip from too much typing. Her fingernails were not peeled at the tip from too much shopping.
The cocktail waitress appeared, wearing a navy blue, short sequined dress with fringe and thick, tan tights, like she was a figure skater. I ordered a glass of white wine; she ordered a “Skinny-ish Margarita.” What was the ish-part, I wondered? I whispered to my husband, “high-maintenance,” as I could see he was watching her, too.
Did he think she was pretty? Did he wish I was more like her?
Feelings of insecurity washed over me. I wondered why I didn’t take better care of myself and how I could improve. She had an heir of entitled confidence that made me a believer. I wanted in on whatever she was selling.
When her drink arrived, it looked like a regular margarita, minus the “ish,” but she sipped it slowly in her maroon and black faux fur jacket and black leather pants.
When her hand was over, she got up from the table without saying goodbye, like a gust of cold air. I felt small, unkempt. I tugged at my black sweater, pulling it over my leggings.
But I have my education, my books, other interests! Shopping is shallow! (This is what I told myself. I wanted to feel better).
But is that any better? And what is it about me–that made me this way–and her, that made her that way? What is it about her that bothered me so much?
In a matter of minutes, my wall of self assuredness toppled over.
And, only now, do I realize what it was, and it’s embarrassing to admit: it was envy. I wanted to be her, in that very moment. I was envious of her!
Envy is an ugly emotion, a lack of appreciation for ourselves, for what we, and only we, can contribute. I don’t feel this way now, but it was powerful when I did.
Throughout life, from childhood, from school until we die, we are taught to compare ourselves with another; yet when I compare myself with another I am destroying myself.” – Jiddu Krishnamurti
