Halfway through yesterday's Scrabble game, Jill and Kristie and I took a brief hiatus and made our way downstairs to our basement. There, just north of the dryer, mounted firmly against the wall, was the newest Holt, an A.O. Smith tankless water heater. Sweet mother, it's a beaut, its sexy brass fittings jutting alluringly from its sturdy and ample chest!! No more will Allison's heat-sucking baths prevent others from a nice, long soak!
I felt like a new parent, showing off my latest family addition. And I'm pretty sure Jill and Kristie left the basement with that oddly bitter taste in their mouths that says "Why can't this be MINE, already?!!" They both certainly finished the Scrabble game with a palpable edge in their voices, each taking pleasure whenever I faltered a bit with my own tiles.
Jealousy really is a green-eyed monster. An evolving one, at that.
So, what things throughout my own life have left me uttering "It's not that easy being green"?! Below, is a decade-by-decade blow of the things in my life that have shaped and shamed me.
1961-1970: The Golden Years
In my first decade of living, I was both envied (see "Cap'n Crunch and the Dentist's kids") and envious (see "The Johnsons bought ANOTHER motorcycle AND a goat?!"). Back then, I attended Merry Manor Preschool (home to the world's greatest sandbox), had a purple Schwinn Stingray (which took me to the heights of greatness when I was crowned City Bike Champ in my 10th year), loved my chlorine-damaged green hair (oddly, something some people envied), and built me a kick-butt fort assembled of wood I'd stolen from nearby construction sites. I also had a moody poodle named Ginger (a.k.a., the great balancer). Whatever "cool" Ginger took away from me, though, was regained when she was squished by a car, revealing to me the pure power of pity.
1971-1980: A Hair-Raising Time
Whatever doors my green hair opened in the previous decade were quickly shut when I got my first perm--think "bleach-blond pubis." I remember catching a glimpse of myself shortly after the perm and tasting hot bile in my mouth, picturing myself 35 years old behind the wheel of a wood-paneled station wagon. This was also the decade in which I let my brother Mike cut my hair, using only a rubber band to guide him, and allowed my mom to smear mayo over my mop as a home treatment for swimmer's hair. Really, as I think about it, there was absolutely nothing about my life during this decade that caught anyone's attention, aside from the police, and that undercover son of a biscuit at Sears. Alas, these were slim years in Jane's "cool" department.
1981-1990: The Top Ramen Years
Back in the good old days, college was a time of abject suffering, when a person learned to live on ten-for-a-dollar noodles and refried beans. And the years that chased college's sheepskin weren't much richer. Mostly, this was the decade of great classes, poorly-paying jobs, and a wedding that, while not as fancy as Princess Di's, did draw quite a bit of attention, considering I showed up in a dress and kissed Mark in public. Aside from my momentary fancying up and smooching, then, really, the only thing I had that other people wanted in this decade was my record collection.
1990-1999: Getting My Groove Back
One of my finest decades, this one was productive for me. I made beer, babies (unrelated), and bad dance moves (again, unrelated). And I made them all with unabashed enthusiasm. Occasionally, in the midst of these good times, I did yen for quieter apartment complexes, better pay and a slimmer waistline, but, for the most part, this was my decade that others may have wanted for themselves.
Or so I tell myself.
2000-present: Settling In, and Just Plain Settling
Plenty of good marks this decade of my life. Great house, great neighbors, great family and a job I love. These days, though, the things I yen for possess zero "cool" value, making me grow ever more invisible in the "I wish I were her" arena. And that's just fine with me.
Nowadays, I perk up when the topic is blown-in insulation, Energy-Star appliances, new windows or paid-off autos. And don't get me started on the value of a good bowel movement.
I suppose, then, that I've come full circle, only I've left behind the admirers. As a baby, people oohed and aahed when I ate my first Cheerio, took my first step and made it to the toilet on my own. These days, I'm still grateful that I can eat solids, walk relatively pain free and keep things moving inside. And I've learned to become my own one-woman band, cheering myself on at each small victory. Still, there is a small part of me that misses the times when those things were celebrated by others, as well.
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