cutting the grass

I had a minor breakdown last Wednesday afternoon which involved me leaning on two of my wise people for more minutes than my Sprint plan currently allows. The flip out was a dash of circumstantial big bang, a heavy dose of the approaching menses, and a generous helping of the grass being greener. Part of the envy I was feeling came directly from BlogHer, land of the women to your right with the full hair and the one to your left with the book deal and the other dead ahead with disposable income that affords her world travel and that elusive Coach scarf hobo. I also booked a flight to a destination wedding this week, one at which I will spend my 34th birthday, likely celebrating both events alone. I was just a swirl of feeling low and as if my cats and my rented apartment just didn’t cut it. It was a pity party for which I forgot to send out invitations.

Things always look so good from the outside. For all of us. Sometimes I wish I wanted offspring so I didn’t have to get the you-just-sprouted-horns look from each and every person who discovers I’m more interested in funding that Coach purchase than a college education. I had to chuckle while reading friend and woman I taught how to text message Chris’ post earlier today. Apparently having seven children and feeding them properly gets you some strange looks at times, as well. What single woman would have thought it?

One of the aforementioned wise people held a get together at his house last week, a setting he has told me on more than one occasion was designed for entertaining. I made this man, a grown man with intact testicles, tell me each and every detail of the event from the napkins to the cheese selection and the service timing because I was just so damn envious. It oozed from me and I cared not to try to scoop it up before he noticed. Neurotic in his planning as I am, he spent days on details like group-pleasing music and cutting the lawn just so. The lawn I don’t have but I'd love to find bits of under my fingernails. Did I mention him having space for a grill? For a deck? I won’t even get started on having a mailbox. A real-life one from which you can send outgoing mail. Without having to go to the post office.

When Jenny was in town a few weeks ago, I openly expressed my envy of her life, a level that grew with each story she told and, naturally, with each glass of Pinot I poured us. It wasn’t one thing. It was the whole picture, albeit one without the zoom on. Her high-profile job that sounds exciting no matter the day and the apartment she co-owns with a man we’re pretty sure will be her fiancé within months in a city that is completely foreign and therefore all the more intriguing to me. Their nights at home with rented movies made me ache a little. To cuddle on the couch with a man with whom I’m in love? Come on, does it really get better than that?

What floored me was that, on more than one occasion during the weekend, she expressed just how boring she thought her life sounded when comparing it to mine. I paused, incredulous, because as glamorous as we all know having the people at your local Subway know your name and mothering one full-bodied feline and the other amputee cat can be, not to mention your collection of brilliant Suave (and now Bliss!) products being every young woman’s dream, I just hadn’t considered how things might look from my outside. She cited the softball and the bocce and the happy hours and the wine tours and the writing and elusive female friendships. And DC and the dating and the drama and the dining out in all four quadrants and being within driving distance of family. And yes, she even mentioned the cats.

Maybe days like Wednesday would be a little easier if I didn’t spend so much of my time looking at the neighbor's lawn.