Jealousy: the Beast

The lowest emotion known to man. Primitive. Basic. Horrific. You know the one: jealousy.

In my case, my jealousy is mostly over money equaling freedom----in other words, one's ability to have free, quality time resulting in a more attractive, easier (seeming) life. As in: I am prone to small pangs of benign, rather silly jealousy over women with perfectly sculpted bodies who have achieved this state from high-priced, at-their-beck-and-call personal trainers. And women who have the means to buy clothing that isn't just fashion but is, instead, art. And I positively loathe the women who don't know the difference. So it's jealousy intermixed with a snobbish voice that will not silence: you have the means but not the essential discerning taste. I think this is all just unfair.

And then there's the ugly green monster that dwells in the sexual realm. The jealous demon that emerges when your lover betrays you and chooses the company of another over you. Often you see the chosen one and you think: Her? Really? Oh come ON. You can't be choosing HER over ME?!?! Of course, it usually has little to do with you. There's usually no comparison, it's something else entirely, like, for example, you weren't emotionally available. This has actually been studied, surveyed and well-documented. There are men who cheat because that's what they do, sure. But most men, according to all that convincing data, cheat because they are emotionally dissatisfied. Anyway, betrayal sucks. And it results in: that feeling. That awful feeling: jealousy.

Worst of all is when you ruminate over the act itself: what did he do with her that he doesn't---or didn't---do with me? Or, perhaps worse: did he do it exactly the same? Caress her face like he does mine? Kiss her softly and tell her sweet things? Ugh. And then: was her body better than mine? Her boobs perkier?

But all jealousy does is awaken (and shake violently) that primitive beast within. And once the beast is loose, ooh boy, watch out. It's been ripped from its quiet, subduded slumber only to burst nearly out of your skin with a life all its own. Interestingly, it speaks through your mouth, too. It says horrible things, does horrible things, thinks horrible things. And despite its low intelligence, it manages to conjure up vivid images and situations, play by play scenarios, and near video-quality mini films.

This beast is quite a spectacle of imagination.

Today, I am bashing him in the head with small, bite-size Butterfinger candies while attempting to quell his maddening thoughts with more peaceful ones like:
happy hour with the girls in a few hours, yeah? sound good? followed by a nice dinner date with your true love?
The beast looks momentarily happy, almost contented at this news, grunts up at me... then, just as quickly, the mood turns and he stomps his feet and frowns, makes an awful noise akin to stomach rumblings of the I've-had-too-many-beans variety and thinks almost audibly: but your true love is the one who bed down with a stranger and all you can do is picture that dimly lit room (candles burning perhaps?) and what her perfume must have smelled like and her shampoo and what did he say to her and how did he manage to forget you....

OK beast, if Butterfingers won't cut it, I'm resorting to rum in a few hours. Mojitos?

And---as if channeling sweet, easygoing cookie monster---he alertly grunts a high-pitched approval.

For now, he rests.

Stay tuned.

When You’re Dumped (Even Though You Dumped Them First And Wanted Them Back They Said No Thanks).

I wrote this a while ago. And things have changed (a lot) since I wrote this.
But I think the feelings are pretty universal.
And, in retrospect, pretty funny.

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When You’re Dumped (Even Though You Dumped Them First And Wanted Them Back They Said No Thanks).


Hate’s a funny thing. Not so much the opposite of Love, really. It’s more like Love’s insanely jealous twin. Love’s prettier and more easygoing. Hate is not so pretty and really pissed off that Love gets it so good. Thing is, nobody realizes that Love always has a twin. Sometimes the twin is hiding behind its sibling. You leave the room. Hate walks in, tells Love to get the hell out. You walk back in, it looks like Love. But it’s not. It’s Love’s bitch sister. Love always has a twin. You just have to know it’s there and send it packing like a 3-day-or-you’re-gonna-stink houseguest. Otherwise, well, it bashes Love’s head into a splattery, Charles Manson mess.

I know this because it just happened to me. I had no idea that Love could be such a wimp. It’s like come on, Love, get it together. Tell Hate to get the hell out. Nope. Sometimes Love is just not that strong.

When we met, I thought I’d met The One. We all know this feeling. The One. Ooh, The One. It’s so amazing.

Like that comedian says: you like pizza? Oh my god, me tooooo! Wow, we BOTH like PIZZA. What are the chances?!

My therapist calls it mirroring. You look at this person and you see yourself. Yippee. Yay me. There I am. Looking back at me the way I’ve always wanted someone to look back at me. Yeah, it feels pretty good. What a bunch of narcissist crap, though, right? I mean, who are we fooling? We just want to be loved. We want to be ok. We want that validation in the world.

But is there even such a thing as Love? I mean, really?

OK, I actually think there is. Unfortunately, I never discover it until it’s too late. And it’s walked out the door. And I’m running after it shouting: But wait! I’ll do it better this time! I won’t take you for granted anymore! I’ll be a better girlfriend.

But Love goes. And then I spend all this crazy time losing weight and drinking too much and trying to fill in time with meaningless time-filling activities like, um, drinking too much and not eating enough.

And doing other, really humiliating stuff that just tortures and prolongs the thing. Such as:

1. Re-reading their letters and cards and notes, even the crumpled ones, scribbled on scrap paper that say “Lovenugget, I’ve gone out for a run, be back soon. I love you, R.” (Yes, I know: Lovenugget. Don’t give me grief over it. I didn’t make it up. Actually, I wondered if maybe he called all his girlfriends that. Now I’m getting annoyed.)

2. Googling their name a thousand times even though you find nothing new. And Googling their name twenty more times beyond that wondering if they have another identity and going a little crazy obsessing over who they might be dating.

3. Repeatedly listening to saved voice mail messages where they say “I love you” in this way that sounds really convincing. And continuing to save these messages (even thought they’re about to expire) because this spoken tidbit of declared love is something you can listen to again later and savor the sound of their voice. And that whole “I love you” thing that just sounds so…. convincing.

4. Locking text messages they sent so you can save them, too, while searching for meaning in something like: “Thanks, it was good seeing you too.” In other words, something you might say to your brother after a weekend visit.

I mean, COME ON. Is there Love to be discovered in a text message? Can you conjure it back up by listening to a saved voice mail?

But really, the question is: how can you have what looks like Love right in front of you for a year and just ignore it, tell it it’s in the way of the TV, can it move please, in the midst of your little pity party about the stupid job you lost (that you hated and deep-down wanted to quit anyway) while they’re doing all this nice stuff for you all the time but you feel like such crap you can’t get around your own piddly head trips only to realize, painfully, agonizingly, that you had everything. How is that possible?

Because later, when it leaves, it’s all you want. It’s all you ever wanted. But it won’t come back. No matter how much, or how earnestly, you beg.

Human nature is so pathetic.

I’ve been the leaver. I’ve been the left. It’s the same story over and over and over and over and over again.

In the end, we all want what we cannot have. Period. End of story.

In fact, if you think it’s any different, you should just stop reading this right now and forget about it. There are no epiphanies in here. It’s the same shit, different cast of characters. Blindly following their sexual urges to a dark, intriguing corner in hopes of finding the light. The light, man. The enlightened light of Love, baby.

With The One.

Or something like that.

Point is, I’m a sad sack right now. A sad sally. A little pissant with a broken heart and a shattered soul. And he knows it. Because I told him. Because I swallowed all that pukey pride on down and let him know just how much he hurt me.

This is not a good idea. Don’t do it. It’s stupid. You lose all power when you do this. Oh yeah, that’s right. The ugly word power. Hate loves power. But, when you’re licking your wounds, you still have to think about power. Even if you don’t have even a shred of pride left in your sally sad sack soul. Because the illusion of power will get you through. Once somebody knows you’ll “do anything” to get them back, well, you are a piece of dried dog turd on the side of the road. Gathering dust in an old Clint Eastwood Western. And nobody wants that.

pickup lines, so right now

DDB Stockholm's new ad for McDonald's. Would-be Lothario is a drunk guy full of pickup lines who, in the end, settles for a Big Mac. This one made me laugh the hardest.

running: a love affair.

I was forced to run for sports in high school---which I hated. I went to a (not the right one for my creative, shy self) private school that was all about the jocks.

"Get out there and run 3-5 miles today LSD," coach said, clapping his hands.

3-5 MILES? LSD? What? Freshman kids with little to no running experience.

LSD = Long. Slow. Distance.

And yes, for three to five miles. Without stopping.

Sounded like hell. And, for me, at the tender age of 13, a kid who had never even run a mile without stopping, it was pretty much that. I will say that all that running was very helpful later---out on the field while I got whacked in the shin, arms, back of legs, by much older, stronger, meaner girls. At least I could run---fast and far away from their whacking sticks---for long periods without getting winded.

But then I left that (mean, jock, rich brat) private school. And you know what I signed up for back at public school? Junior year. Age 16. Yep: Cross-country. What was I thinking?

I don't know.

What I couldn't understand was how some short chick could run faster than me. How did she do that? The mini greyhound against the Weimeraner. Built for speed while I was built for...what?...grace? Eh. I'll take it. Grace isn't so bad.

The endorphins were better than some other recreational activities at that time in my life, I'll say that.

At 19, I was running on Martha's Vineyard in the dry town of Vineyard Haven. Running at sunset by the harbor, through town, and up and down the narrow, winding streets. Running was my drug of choice. Has been for many years. It's a love/hate relationship, one that I abandon at times but always return to.

It wasn't until I faced a deep, dark depression at the age of 21 that I realized that running, and its effects, had the ability to not just transform my brain chemistry here and there and make my body tighter, stronger and better, but it had, well, the ability to save my life. I'd fallen down the rabbit hole. Way, way down it. I couldn't see up anymore. I was trapped down there, sleeping all day, not eating. I'd lost my sense of humor entirely. Nothing made me happy anymore.

The psychiatrist said it wasn't clinical. It was situational. I'd gone through a rough patch. Not only was I working in a smoke-filled office with no windows in the dead of winter, I was living with an abusive drunk who put holes in the walls when angry. And I didn't drink at all. So, one night, around 4AM, I went back to my parents. And curled up in a tiny ball and tried to disappear. It was my mother who woke me up one afternoon---after many, many days of sleeping around the clock with the two black cats---who handed me The "Cindy Crawford Workout Video" and told me she was going out for a few hours and that when she got back she wanted me to tell her I'd done this tape.

I did the tape. It was weight training stuff. I did it for a few weeks every day. And then, one day, I looked outside at the flat, treelined road outside my parents' house. It called to me. I went to it. And I ran. This was all way before that movie Forrest Gump. Run, Jess, run became me. I lost all body fat, I sweated like a mad man, my quads grew into lovely, muscular machines that made me feel, for once, kind of powerful. All alone, in the days before iPods, I ran. And I cleared out my mind. And my heart got stronger. And everything else got better.

A little fairytale of sorts.

It's funny because, just recently, I went through something painful again. Really painful actually. And instead of curling up into a ball and trying to melt into the fabric of a couch, I started running again. I'd had a bit of hiatus. Too long. It's strange how you can forget what works while you're looking for another outlet, outside yourself, to fill in the pain like so many cottonballs in your ear, silence it, dull it, numb it, make it go away. But there is a better way. And that's to fight the pain with pain. Because running is no easy feat. Especially when you've just come off the longest pity party you've ever thrown. A pity party on a couch with a laptop and a resume asking the world "love me, hire me."

Pity party: over.

Blood flowing warmth pumping in my veins at 8.0 on the treadmill: yes.

It's been 21 years since my love affair began. We've broken up a bunch of times. But we always get back together. Ah, running. I love you. Even though you annoy me.