My Very Own Green-Eyed Monster

                                                                            

Green with Jealousy--literally

“How all the other passions fleet to air,

As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair,
And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy!”

--Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

Of all the seven deadly sins I battle, I console myself about my relative lack of jealousy. At least there’s that! Mind you, this is not because I am above that sort of emotion. It is merely that I lack the interest level to covet most things. I am not remotely jealous of those who own the mega-mansions in our township, for example. Sure, it’d be great to have closets not built for Thumbelina, and a decent sized kitchen. But I know myself—I’d never be able to maintain that kind of space, even with household help. I have zero desire for a snazzy sports car, or a yacht; I wish the owners of those items well. When I was in middle school in New York, I was briefly jealous of classmate Leslie Marxmeyer, who had poker straight platinum blonde hair, gorgeous clothes, and was (it seemed) six feet tall, but I soon realized that I was happy enough being short and brunette and haphazardly garbed.

So it was with a shock that I realized how jealous I am of other writers. I dream of writing pieces with their top-level cleverness, or their heart-tugging poignancy (preferably both at once). Though I am too conservative to pen anything like the hilarious but very raw family essays of David Sedaris, I’d truly love to. He can write about his super-eccentric sibs and parents and make you roar with laughter, while at the same time you’re crying for them. THAT, my friends, is talent.

During the past few years, I have started seeing more plays, after a long absence from the audience. But now I’m catching up: Next to Normal, Fun Home, Ragtime, Book of Mormon, Hamilton, Come From Away, Waitress. And as I watch, enthralled, all I can think about is: darn it! Why can’t I write like that?

Last month, Julie invited me to join her for a preview performance of a new musical on Broadway, Freestyle Love Supreme. FLS can be described as Whose Line is it Anyway? taken up about a hundred notches. A hugely talented troupe comes up with original rap numbers completely inspired by random shouted audience suggestions, on the spot. In other words, it all has to rhyme, it all goes lickety-split, it all flows perfectly—and it’s spontaneous. The night we were there, they invented a long and hysterical song about a doctor traveling in India who eats bad fruit while riding on an elephant, and attempts to self-medicate. I could never have created anything that funny, especially instantly. But I am so so jealous of the people who can.

As we are in the season of Thanksgiving, I am trying to conquer my green-eyed monster, and trade gnawing envy for simple appreciation. I am really no better than the people whose jealousy revolves around money and possessions, and that’s not OK. I need to be grateful for the writing ability I do have, and not always focus on being bested.

But it ain’t easy.

So perfectly funny/sad. Ugh.