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.