“I don’t want you to look at her. I don’t like her.”
That’s me, lately, feeling jealous and insecure.
I am twenty one years old, about 5 foot five.
I am good at languages. I love to read and write. I also love sunshine, the countryside, and exercise. I am a bit of an old soul. I think I am intelligent. Also responsible. I love cooking and baking. I love driving. Cycling. Libraries. Cooking videos. Creativity. Colour. Painting. Drawing. I also do calligraphy. I read a lot of science. I used to want to become a doctor. I think I am a well rounded individual.
My shoulder length hair is severely curly, so visually it is chin length. Probably should have said that first. I used to have really thick, bushy hair. Ringlets flying all over the place. It framed my face nicely.
Now it is thinning, so I have to employ self conscious methods to hide the scalp underneath. As a woman, this is mentally debilitating. Also makes me feel a bit ugly. Most of the time.
I have some fat. Here and there. I am strong; I can do five push ups at a go, then rest for a few seconds and do five more. I can only repeat this twice, however. I can do the step machine for twenty minutes on level 16 before it starts to really demand my strength and I will then have to lean on the bars as my gluten and thighs ascend ever on. That is some good endurance.
I can be funny in person. I do good anecdotes. I can be weird, which can be funny, if the right dosage is applied, accompanied by structured facial expressions and silly hand/body movements.
I have good thighs. They can cycle me up some steep hills. One friend calls them “thunder thighs”. I admit I was offended at first. But then I thought, ‘Huh. They do thunder up those hills.’
I have some flaws. Well, lots of flaws.
But I think I am an overall good (if slightly runny) egg.
My heart, however, has an extremely jealous sentinel standing guard to protect the one thing that I fear losing the most. She raises her metaphoric hackles and growls viciously if somebody so much as looks towards my husband.
Other girls don’t respect the fact that he is my husband, and will coyly glance at him from under layers of makeup, their bottoms flashing like baboons in jeans so tight I am shocked they can move. They will touch his arm, they will laugh at the things he says.
I am talking about some very specific girls, here. Some girls that I know about very well. Girls who know we are married. Girls who are empty headed sillies, but also very pretty. Prettier than me. Girls who know how to wear lipstick, and can carry off their outfits remarkably well. They are confident and breezy.
That is when I begin to think I am not good enough. Not pretty enough. Not clever enough. Not thin enough. Not funny enough. Not charming enough. Too clumsy. Too large. Too hunch back-y. Too manly (I know, what!? I am not manly. I am very much a girl. But when I see girls who are all pretty and make-uppy, and notice my own bare face drained of colour looking back at me in the mirror, my thin hair, my hunchy arms.. well, you think those things). Too boring.
Sometimes I notice if he looks. I know he isn’t the only one who looks. But why is he looking. Am I not enough?
And the sentinel rises inside me, torch aflame, marching forward, teeth bared.
And I say,
“Don’t look at that girl. I don’t like her.”
Maybe he wasn’t looking at that girl. Maybe he did think she was pretty. Hell, I thought she was pretty. If he did, I don’t want to think about that. It will burn my insides up with fury and hurt and anger if I dwell on such things.
I am very jealous. Does this make me evil? I sometimes feel like a horrible person when I feel that way.
Are you jealous?