I have always been a ruthlessly competitive person. Getting me to do something is as simple as showing me someone who is doing it or has done it. Of course this does not hold true for everything at large. NOTHING in the world can make me take up adventure sports, for instance. I find nothing thrilling about hanging upside down from a rickety elevator, yo-yoing headfirst between valleys and cliffs or plunging down vertiginous heights with a mere seat belt type thingy strapped to my torso. No sirree, that’s never going to be me. But yeah, show me a woman who has an immaculately kept house, an envious career and a killer fashion sense and, hands down, I will surpass her in a few months.
Stupid, I know. Juvenile even. Competition is healthy within limits. Competition in personal life is just plain madness. Sadly, I fall into that category. As a little kid, sanity was still a good friend. All I wanted was to be the best student my parents could imagine. In high school it turned into a healthy sibling rivalry (rather one-sided though since my darling brother was too mature for such trivial pursuits even then!) where I would slog away at the books in a desperate bid to perform better than my rockstar older brother who was incredibly intelligent. Towards my teenage years this competitive streak became a (rather pathetic) desire to have a boyfriend; if my friends could, why couldn’t I? Somewhere in my mid-twenties this became a longing to get married. All my good friends were doing it, why should I always be left behind?
And now? Now that I am finally married, after much pining and waiting to find that elusive dream-machine (he’s mine now-yayy!), all I see around me is moms and to-be moms and I want to be them with every damn fiber of my being. I want that swollen belly, I want to share scary stories of childbirth, I want to whisper sweet nothings to my little jellybean, I want to suffer sleepless nights… I want it all.
Which is where the envy rolls in. Like some B-grade Hollywood starlet, made up to the hilt and expecting to be treated like royalty, she swishes into my life, her emerald green cape in tow. She digs her nails into my heart, she wails like a banshee in my ears and she demands, demands, demands my attention 24/7. I log into facebook, I see another friend pregnant. My heart sinks and I deactivate my account (it’s been close to a year and I have not had the strength to get it back on). Yet they keep coming. The pregnant ladies. I see them in the mall, they pop up at school, they litter my neighborhood, they are everywhere! And I wish them well, I do. I am not a monster. I might be short-tempered, irritable, catty, snappy, bratty all that. But I cannot wish harm on even a fly. Or an ant. Or an atom (you get the drift!). But it effin’ hurts when someone you’ve known for so long turns up with a nice, round tummy when you’re slugging it out with your insane dietary needs, your daily temperature taking, your timed intercourse, OPKs et al only to see that stupid f***in’ single line on the HPT month after month after month. Doesn’t help that this someone was also probably a smoker, drinker, typical girl in the city kinda thing. Whereas here you are, diligently avoiding rice, rotis, sugar, ice cream, sodas, chai, any fried stuff, any non-organic stuff etc. etc.
Yeah I know you can’t compare. But it’s tough not to, especially when you have this past of being the last one to find someone, the last one to get married blah blah blah. So I have decided instead to accept it. Accept what I am feeling as a pure manifestation of what I am going through and forgive myself for it. Accept that my feeling envious does not mean that I have transformed into a super-bitch who eats jealousy for breakfast. That I do wish the pregnant lady well and that, when I am pregnant myself, I might even look back upon it and smile, shaking my head wondering how I ever thought I was being mean. After all, people will have sex and they will procreate and the luckier ones will get knocked up sooner. Doesn’t have to mean my turn won’t come.