“What do I have that she would be jealous of?”
As soon as I said the words out loud I realized I had a problem, and it had been stewing for waaay to long to be considered healthy.
She’s beautiful, lives in a beautiful house, has a beautiful family, had a beautiful wedding, went though her pregnancy beautifully, had a beautiful baby, continues to be beautiful, lives in a beautiful part of town and has a beautiful marriage with no studen loans or vile mildew stench coming from under her rented apartment’s kitchen sink.
I should add that I uttered the words out loud while touring another friend’s brand new out of control beautiful home mere blocks away from a brand new temple. (If you’re LDS you’ll know what a big deal this is, if you’re not, it’s probably like being Catholic and living next door to the Vatican. Or if you really like bread it would be like living next to a bakery. Or if you really liked working out it would be like living next door to a gym. You get my point. It’s a big deal.)
Suddenly my smelly little hundred year old apartment back home that always seemed to smell of a sour rag was the bane of my existence. The debt, all the time gone with Cody in school, my inability to get pregnant, my lack of proof that I was, in fact, 26 years old without a hint of grown up hit me like a ton of bricks.
There I was with two friends, the same age as me with so much more, so much better.
I threw myself a pity party bigger than Mardi Gras with free booze.
A few weeks ago I came back to my life in Indiana. Back to that odd smell from under the sink. Nothing had really changed except that I made myself a vow to change myself and that nasty little attitude I had chilling out, maxing, relaxing all cool in a Barca lounger at the back of my mind.
So what if I have a small smelly house? I HAVE A HOUSE.
So what if we’re in massive amounts of student loan debt? NO WHERE TO GO BUT UP!
So what if I never see my husband? I MISS YOU MAKE OUTS ARE AWESOME.
So what if I can’t get pregnant? I GET TO HAVE A LOT (and boy howdy I mean A LOT.) OF PRACTICE IN THE MEAN TIME. (See previous sentence.)
I also found that I was relying too much on the approval of others to be happy with myself. (Shocking, I know.) But highest on that list was Cody. I so desperately wanted him to glorify my awesomeness in everything I did. I expected him to come home with trophies for cleaning the house. I wanted him to swoon over how well I had curled my hair or wobble at the very scent of my good smellingness.
But he never did. (Well, at least not out loud with fanfare and praises like I envisioned in my head.)
Then I realized I’m married to a dude.
Dudes don’t do fanfares of awesome over their ladies. (Well, mine doesn’t.)
So I started producing my own fanfares, sometimes to the tune of “Candyman” in front of a full length mirror before I left the house.
And I felt better.
Today in church we were talking about “trying to keep up” with each other. Like high school. Remember high school? *shiver* I can tell you that if I went back to high school knowing what I know now? I’d do a swell job. I wouldn’t try to fit into someone’s mold, the popular style of jeans or even the popular crowd. I’d be nice to everyone and avoid drama like I now avoid sinus infections.
Yet I let what someone else had get in the way of how I felt about myself and my own self worth.
Hello? Casey? You didn’t learn jack crap from high school.
xoxo-the voice inside your head.
A brilliant friend of mine who was sitting next to me today said that she has spent hours exhausting herself comparing her inside to everyone else’s outside.
Let’s talk about doughnuts.
We’ve all seen the pretty perfect round doughnuts at the grocery store, the ones that seem as though their icing was painted on and every sprinkle’s location artfully mapped out by a seasoned professional.
They taste like crap.
Then there’s my favorite bakery by my house. Most of their baked goods look as though they have been sat on. The store is gray and the workers are salty women who wear too much eye makeup. But as soon as you bite into a fluff filled caramel iced bar? You know you’ve got something good. And you would never trade it for the prettiest doughnut from the fanciest most hyped up celebrity ridden doughnut store in the world.
I realize that my friends I referenced earlier are now thinking I’m saying they taste like crap and their whole lives are a farce. But really? The fact that I adore them both so much it overshadows all the nasty jealous feelings my nasty Barca dwelling attitude is able to fling out.
I am no longer going to let myself compare my tasty cream filled insides to other people’s seemingly flawless yet-taste-like-crap-insides outsides. I hope you’ll do the same. And I really hope we never envy each other, it’s such a waste of time. Let me be happy for you when your awesome parade goes by just as I’d appreciate it if you stood up and gave me a little holler during my 4:42 second awesome dance to Candyman.
As long as the Lord and the lady with the crazy hair staring back at me in the mirror is happy with me?
I’ve got all the approval I need.
Now I just need a doughnut.