The Green Eyed Monster

I'm thinking, rather uncharacteristically, about jealousy.

I always think I have a handle on the human experience, that I understand other people's feelings, until I'm exposed to actual humans who seem so alien.

I figured that I "got" jealousy. Someone else has something you'd like to have, and you don't. Who hasn't experienced that? It seems so universal.

It's apparently not.

I was always annoyed by stories of siblings who were deeply resentful of each other. It seemed so cliche' and annoying. Now I'm reading another book with such siblings; one sister just has to have anything her sister has, and that translates into seducing every boyfriend of her sister's, and disparaging every accomplishment her sister achieves. I spent so many years dismissing such people as unimaginative fiction, but then I met so many of them that I finally understood where the cliché' came from. I'm still taken by surprise; I'm evidently a slow learner.

I grew up with siblings, and it never occurred to me to wonder who our parents loved best, or to covet what my siblings had. I thought my oldest sister was the most beautiful woman on the planet, but I was not resentful about it at all. I wished I looked like her, but I didn't. It was disappointing, but not anger inducing. I never wished that she was unattractive, or that a boyfriend would dump her, or any such thing. She was amazing – she still is – but I didn't think I was unattractive because she was pretty, or that because she was smart that I had to be stupid. We were all smart – I thought that it ran in the family.

I never avoided what my siblings did best, for fear that I'd never measure up, or insisted on redoing everything they did, hoping I'd outshine them. Sometimes I did the same things; I was a photographer like my big brother, and I won the middle school spelling bee, like my big sister. Sometimes I didn't; one of my sisters won track medals, and I was never going to be a runner.

Whenever one of the other kids compared themselves to me, whether it was positively or negatively, it annoyed me. That gorgeous older sister would forever make me, and our other sister, bare our teeth in the mirror and then lament, "My teeth are so yellow! Yours are white!" I hated it. My other sister would get weirdly competitive about things beyond anyone's control, like whether my chocolate chip cookie had more chocolate chips. "Let me see that," she'd demand, determined to count the chips, while I'd take a big bite and say, "No! Eat your cookie!"

"You had more than me! You just don't want me see it!" she'd say. Boring little pragmatist that I was, I couldn't understand how she could turn being given a treat into something to be upset about.

I did not value the qualities of being competitive or ambitious; those things just looked like misery to me.

Years ago, I asked my mother if I was just misremembering, and creating a little Zen persona that never existed. No, she said, all in all we were remarkably noncompetitive, and sibling rivalry or jealousy was the exception, not the rule, among the kids.

Once, after they broke up, one sister's former boyfriend asked if he could take me out sometime - "Or would that be too weird?" Too, weird, I agreed. I didn't gloat; I wondered why he'd asked.

It wasn't just my siblings. I didn't feel I was in competition with my friends, either. Sometimes I had the best grade or art project whatever else, and sometimes I didn't. That's how I expected life to work.

When another person got a part I'd wanted, I occasionally got angry at the director, but not at the person they cast. One director I worked with years ago was so deeply predictable in his casting that it got to the point that I could pick out from the group, before any of us had actually auditioned, who would be cast. He cast people he thought were beautiful. I did not qualify. That's the director's problem, not the beautiful people's problem.

Being a photographer was a big part of my sense of self from the time I was eight years old, and being a yearbook and newspaper photographer was a huge part of my high school identity. Still, my friends frequently asked to borrow the camera I brought to school every day. I let a couple of them borrow it on a regular basis. When one of their photos would be chosen for the yearbook, especially if someone complimented me on it, I'd say, "Scott took that one," or "That one's Ariane's." I was proud of having talented friends (and a nice camera), and glad we had a good variety of photos for the book. The other photographer and I couldn't be everywhere. The book was supposed to represent the whole school.

When I was a senior, Ariane took the camera to her science class, and got a great photo of the class python going straight up the side of the glass enclosure, while a student sat just inches away watching him. The yearbook advisor called me over when she saw it on the proof sheet (it's a film reference – either you're old enough to remember, or I can't explain it to you.) She assumed it was mine, and wanted details about when it was taken. "That's Ariane's," I told her. "Ask her. She'll know."

"I really want to enter this at Press Day. I think it would have a good chance of winning," the yearbook teacher said. Press Day was a competition for high school newspapers, held once a year at the local university. I'd entered things at Press Day, writing and photos, but never won. Press Day awards were the high school equivalent of a state title, and they were coveted.

In order to be entered at Press Day, the photo had to, of course, appear in the paper, and to appear in the paper, it had to be tied to an article. "What's going on in the science department?" the teacher quizzed us. "There has to be something we can write about!" Finally someone scrounged up something newsworthy, and the photo went into the paper, with Ariane's byline.

She was not nearly as excited about the photo being entered as the teacher and I were. "I'm not even a photographer!" she said.

"You took that photo, and it's good," I told her.

"But I'm not even on the newspaper staff!"

"Shut up. You don't have to be on the staff. You go here. That's all that matters."

The photo took first place in the photo category at Press Day. Our school hadn't won a first place for years, and the staff was giddy.

Later, someone asked me if I was angry or upset about it. "Why?" I wanted to know.

"Well, because you're a photographer, and you didn't win. She isn't even a photographer, and she did."

I can't even remember who asked me, but it was unwise. I was Ariane's biggest cheerleader, and defended her fiercely when I thought I needed to. Besides, aside from basking in her reflected glory, which I often did, there were so many ways I figured that this win was a great thing for me. I was Photo Editor of the paper, and we had the first place photo. Even better, my best friend took it, with my camera. Maybe it's self centeredness, but I thought the win had plenty to do with me. Even if it didn't, Ariane deserved it. I think I was at least as proud as her parents.

Would it have been great if it was my photo? Sure. But Ariane taking a great photo, or hundreds of great photos, didn't diminish my talent at all. It's not as if there's a finite amount, and in order to take a great picture she had to leach talent away from me.

My husband hates to go places alone, so we've frequently arranged for him to take a female friend with him when I can't go somewhere. He's taken some very beautiful women some great places. One of our friends was his "date" so frequently that she referred to herself as his "girlfriend." She still does, occasionally. I am not bothered. Neither is her husband.

So, I'm puzzled, really baffled, when I run across somebody who is deeply jealous. It makes no logical sense to me.

I've actually set the book with the whiny, jealous sibling down and picked up another novel. It was just too aggravating. I found myself wanting to smack this character once too often, so now I'm deep in a new Patricia Cornwell. I mean, sure, there's a psychotic killer, but you're supposed to dislike the villain.