I have always been envious.
I sat next to Brooke Hayes in our Methodist pre-school. She was my best friend. And I coveted her glasses, braids and pretty dresses.
I envied my cousin in Chicago with all her fancy clothes, which I received generously handed down. She had a father who loved her; I couldn't fathom what that must be like.
With braces and acne, I envied all my friends with clear skin and straight teeth.
So I should've recognized the ugly emotion broiling within me last night, and held my tongue, but I failed. Wine and comradarie loosened my lips and I spewed nasty sentiments about a gracious host. Her home was "too decorated, too pat, contrived" I spat. Her home, in truth, was lovely and large, and reminded me of the well appointed homes in the Delta.
I woke up this morning, feeling sheepish, my tongue thick in my mouth. Not unlike a drunk regretting her antics, I thought of friends to whom I needed to apologize.
There will always be someone more beautiful, smarter, wealthier than I. Why do I take that as a personal insult?
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