I got jealous this week. I forgot how ugly it is. I'd forgotten the way it burns - that lovely concoction in the pit of your gut of panic, anger, insecurity, craziness, a sudden increased desire for your mate, and the secret urge to take the eyes out of the woman who has suddenly, perhaps quite innocently, come between you. (Of course, to you her innocence is merely a facade for her completely malicious scheming to steal your squeeze.) Yes, jealousy is nasty and not very sisterly.
I guess part of me was was naive enough to think that maybe I was past it, that it was kidstuff. Not that I was beyond it, one of those scary-alien types who proclaim, "I don't get jealous." Just that I was beyond succumbing to its irrationality. Then it smacked me upside the head, and the sensation came flooding back, and I slid into it like an old shoe.
As usual, its entry, while gale-like in force, was triggered by a simple and barely significant event. A tiny, inexplicable detail, a message that had been left that implied that there had been some interaction between the message-leaver and my date that he had neglected to mention and that did not fit into the category of friendship. Sort of in the "Thanks for the you-know-what," nudge, nudge, wink, wink vein. Oof!
Of course, it helped that I already suspected my date of having lascivious thoughts about the message-leaver. This was merely my proof.
***
You don't want to know, I fiercely told myself, though every fibre in my body was crying out for details. Be cool, I muttered to myself, as I calmly inquired as to what she might be referring in her quaint little personalized message.
I didn't like the look I got. I walked away. You simply don't want to hear this, I thought. I came back. He explained, and it reeked of innocence and logic. Which, of course, only made me more suspicious.
After all, if he was so innocent, why had he neglected to mention this little "favour he had done for a friend in need." He did a pretty good selling job, I have to admit, but didn't he realize that withholding evidence is akin to pleading guilt.
I knew you'd read something else into it if I told you, he tells me. Yeah, duh. So should I, be reading something else into it it, that is? No, he insisted. Honest? No. End of exchange. That's all I'm supposed to need, right. I trusted him, didn't I?
So why did I find myself eyeballing his apartment the next time I was there, scanning for clues, and an opportune moment to rummage through his bedside drawer and count the condoms?
Why was I dividing my time between wondering and trying to stop myself from wondering - occasionally letting my imagination take off, just to see how bad I could feel? And then there were the little films I played in my mind. If he did sleep with her, was it better, did he did try that little thing on her that he had learned I like? Eeeew! Nausea. Stop it!
Okay, I think, if I'm not gonna let myself dig for details, I'll just fish around to see if there's been any further contact. ("Oh, sounds like the party you went to when I was away last weekend was fun, so, who-all went?")
Then I'll waste my time making mental lists of all the things that make me way more interesting than her. And when I'm through the run-down of her flaws, I'll compare body parts.
***
In a fit of maturity, I get a grip. C'mon, I tell myself, you've had your share of lascivious thoughts and you've even acted on some. Where do you get off being jealous? He didn't even do anything (or so he says, I slip in). Besides, even if he did, you have to focus on whether it affects your relationship. This is about you and him, not her, I tell myself.
