blackink

I come from a small town and and up until we left for University, I was one of eight girls who had coincidently followed each other through every school and often classes, from playgroup (age 3) to leaving sixth form at 18. And I have been secretly jealous of one these girls, Emily, for this entire time.

This isn't a quality I applaud in myself, these aren't the sort of traits anyone wants to put their hands up to, but it's an envy that is built of a thousand million small moments and whenever I consider the sort of person I would like to be, her image automatically appears.

And it's pathetic isn't it? Why one persons gain is an injustice to another. But this isn't a green eyed envy that makes me dislike Emily, I don't hate her for what she has, I just feel where she has succeeded I have failed. Unfortunately since this comparison has chugged on for nigh on my entire life, it's not easy to either explain, justify or forget. So you'd like to know what this greedy white middle class brat wants? No probably not. But somehow I think by writing down some of the daft reasons for feeling inadequate in the past, it might show how stupid my jealousy has been.

OK....as children I wished I were an only child like her, with the constant doting affection of two teachery parents. She had a dog, whereas my Dad was too upset by Fatty's death (my chow) to get another. Emily was sporting, and intelligent. (I was proud of my backward rolls and was always frowned as 'chatty' in lessons) Teacher's beamed when they saw her, she was the type to win prizes for her homemade Christmas creations. (I can still remember her Santa Clause with jointed limbs that climbed a papier mache chimney, and my Pom Pom Reindeer collapsed at the back on it's pipe cleaner legs ). We both auditioned for a role in a year 6 version of The Pied Piper of Hamlin and she got the part, I was the 'boy' who sat behind her. Her homework looked immaculate. She was quiet but people noticed her. It even got down to her looks. (I should mention at this point that people have said we look potentially similar- if that's possible? ), except I took Emily to be an improved shiny version of myself. For instance she is tall 5'9/ 10 (I am taller, but whereas mine is clumsy and mannish she resembles a graceful swan-esque lady) and slender whereas I am naturally curvier. Her hair is longer than I can grow mine and thick, her eyes are sparkling green, mine sludgy. She has dimples and freckles. I have stubbornly loyal chubby cheeks and sunburn. She's interested in and knowledgeable of politics, very well travelled (damn geography teacher parents), and obviously had a childhood sweetheart boyfriend relationship that lasted six years. Her clothes are alternative/preppy/ Gap with comfy worn jeans, tshirts over tshirts, and Merell trainers. She even wears a big tassled scarf around her (the latest Public School look) and gets away with it. Though of course, I would think that.

It's a bit sad to write this and realise how deep-seated (and petty!) this is, but also because I fear I envy her for things I don't necessarily want. We've had the same education, and lived our two decades in the same town. We live ten minutes apart. Being subjected to such similar circumstances, maybe I see her success as having used time more effectively, taken advantage of opportunities that I missed. Maybe I'm jealous because I feel I could have been what she is. It sounds insane doesn't it? I mean, who cares? I'm healthy and in good circumstances. That's really all that matters. And if I really want to be like her, what do I have to do? Hit the gym more often, buy some new clothes, change a few hobbies, slightly adapt my personality. Now how daft does it seem?

FRIDAY 10TH MARCH

I'm upstairs in our local 'rock/ alternative' club, which generally rotates The Strokes, Blondie and The Killers in the same pattern every week and is otherwise the place all the moody kids go to every Friday and get trashed. I haven't been in a while, but it used to be the highlight of my week and I know most people there. Except the new emo under-agers. *narrows eyes.

I'm leaning over the bar, bellowing for more toxins and someone grabs my arm. Guess who? Emily. Now, as a result of all these pathetic insecurities about the differences of our lives I find it incredibly difficult to talk to her. It used to be fine, until I realised why I felt like shit every time we spoke. I now get nervous, which means I ramble, and my brain starts whirring for interesting facts about myself that I can slip into conversation and impress either one of us. Immediately I picked up my drinks and moved away from the bar, and inevitably, slopped a good inch of whiskey and coke down between us. She jumps a mile (I know. She can even jump a mile. ) and I feign that it's missed us even though the bottom of my top was now uncomfortably wet and sticking to my stomach. The top was black, the club was dark, it was OK. I laughed out loud at the situation and my own ridiculousness and grinned at her.

Nothing. She didn't smile. My mouth dropped nervously, and I kicked up conversation with how she was. Her replies were in the usual tone, friendly but curt. Aloof, cool, calm, with carefully chosen and pronounced words. Neither too loud or too quiet. Confident, meticulous, brilliant. Blargh.

But something was different. It nagged me and I didn't care to listen to how exciting her life was, so whilst she spoke I studied her warily and considered what was wrong, all the while making eyes or waving with the people I knew that were passing. After a few minutes Emily stopped talking, and I automatically nodded and hmm hmmed her to go on.

"I asked you a question."

"Oh, sorry I didn't catch that bit...."

EMILY CLENCHES HER JAW SLIGHTLY.

"I said how's your job hunting going?"

"OH. Oh, yeah, that's um....well, it's going well. Lot's of jobs applied for. Lot's of um, you know, direction. And I know where I'm heading with things. So.....all good really. Just...just....waiting for one to accept little me really! " I laughed heartily. She didn't react.

And then in one of those rare but lovely see-yourself-from-above moments (though it was actually technically speaking more to the side, as if I'd swapped places with the energetic dancer who seemed to have transported herself from the middle of the 80s just to be part of our club for the evening. I made a mental award for her at the time. )

I saw what was wrong.

Here I was, slightly drunk, rambling crap, spilling drinks, well aware that I would fall over at some point that evening (I did. Twice.) My hair was frizzy from drizzle, dusky pink as the red is starting to wash out and my makeup was smudged. But I was smiling, and Emily wasn't. Emily was uncomfortable. She looked out of place and she didn't know what to say. Emily didn't look happy. And the more I thought about it, I realised that I couldn't think of a single time when she had made me laugh. Of all people, the person I would most like to be should be able to make me laugh right? Nope.

Why? Because that's what I'm good at.

I'm not hilarious, crack a minute (thankfully) but I can generally get people laughing with a little self deprication or ice breaking antics which do embarrass me but can be disguised with a goofy persona.

And I'm nice and I'm perceptive. It's important to me that people don't feel awkward or shy and although I might get a tad over earnest about it, I don't want people to feel like they don't have someone to talk to. And in this nice whiskey haze I thought that those three qualities alone were better than all that stuff Emily has.

Well, not ALL of her stuff.

But I left her feeling alright. And I had a great evening. Well, until I tripped over, lost my friends and my brother's door key, realised I was completely trashed, chipped a heel, gained a coat, fell over again and eventually curled up in the hallway to my brother's apartment until his much older flat mate woke me this morning with a rueful and somewhat alarmed face. And today has been hour after hour of headache, stomach cramps and nausea which was a waste of a Saturday. But, I don't think I swap it for Emily's clean minimalist bedroom and her suitably cool bedtime of 2 am. I wouldn't swap my horrendous frayed jeans for her diesel flares. And I more than certainly wouldn't swap my friends.


(Though I might still have her bum.)