Benign Envy

I just saw this term, coined by another blogger; Sappho’s Torque, and I feel it applies so much to my general mood today that I’ve almost gone past benign and right up into ‘Scowl Alley’.

We, the Hub and I, didn’t do things ‘right’. We’ve been told enough and today this has been reinforced yet AGAIN, making me feel considerably less than my 5ft 6 inches in height. I feel closer to the ball that Red curled up into this morning when Bear pulled a nasty chunk of hair from her head and I (seriously wrongfully) applied sarcasm and adult logic- “So what did you sit next to him in the first place for?” The ball she curled up into was minute and quite a feat as she is very tall for her age. Nonetheless I apologised, fear not.

But I feel around that size. Things just seem to fall into place for people around me while Murphy (He of the ‘Law’) systematically kicks our legs out from under us literally the second something turns in our favour. I have found, over the course of my quarter century life span, that it is bad luck for me to anticipate or become excited about ANYTHING, literally, anything because then either it won’t work out or it will and something will knock me for six straight afterward. Ergo, I have become quite experienced in not being excited, not out of fear but out of expectation of BS in my path. Other people do not seem to have this relationship with Murphy. Or else he receives some serious bribes.

Benign Envy does sound wonderful. I like the idea of it. I like the visual in my head of a classy looking 40’s style lady, red lips, coiff- the lot, sitting at her secretary’s desk, clicking away with feet crossed at the ankles in the proper refined way (ahem!) and then another lady walks by. Her hair coiffed differently, perhaps even in a new way, a chignon. Her lips aren’t the same homogenous shade sported by the secretaries but a far more delicately feminine pale pink or a nude. She’s not prancing through the walkway, no, she has Hepburn demeanour, (either Hepburn), a surety of self and quiet confidence that emits from people who are just FORTUNATE, confound it.

So things did not go to plan and as result we’re a little behind in everything you’re ‘supposed to do in your twenties’.

I haven’t much interest in it, but I’ve never been interrailing. (The schedule intimidates me, I’d rather languish for a few weeks at a time).

I haven’t done a skydive, neither have I taught English to foreign kids and I rarely go to gigs and concerts. 

I’ve never been to Paris, hundreds of times in books and films, but I’ve never seen the Louvre, the Champs or Montmartre in person. Although my number 1 thing to do in Paris would be to go on the Trampoline Bridge, not the other stuff.

I didn’t finish my degree, financial and family choices meant I stayed at home and have an almost 5 year old who scored a 3.95 (ish) on her report card as well as receiving a commendation for art and drama. I am proud, truly, if a little… (regretful is NOT the word)

As much as I love literature, history, culture, politics, law, scrapbooking, sketching and baking, as much as I love all these things, I’ve never been able to nail down really anything and say ‘Yes, I have this.’

We’ve amassed a library but I haven’t read the last 20 books I’ve purchased. Ausiobooks are my new medium.  

My girls fight like demons and are best friends at the same time though I damaged the relationship with my own sister, possibly irreparably.

Things don’t like going right in terms of ‘outside my little family’ achievements. And it is exhausting to be able to hold nothing up (outside the children) and say I earned this.

So I benignly envy some people I know who, yes, have worked hard and got their shit together. They managed to work through it while I put more domestic things first (I think, wrongly) and they achieved X and Y while I didn’t, we didn’t, although Hub is working very hard to change this scenario.

But I do let myself have a daydream of a baseball bat (studded with ninja stars)  to their faces once in a while. It, morbidly, keeps me sane.


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