"Green with envy." Am I missing something here? Why would someone seething with jealousy be green? After arduous attempts to research the origin of this ridiculous and commonly used saying, (alright, alright I typed the quote into a search engine and barely made it to page two of Google's results), I have found only one possible reason for associating the color green with the suffocating emotion of envy.
Faux-history lesson alert: A few thousand years ago, when the young King Tut was still Egyptian walking his way to fame, the common folk used the color green to describe someone who was sick with illness or jealousy. They believed that when these feelings came on, the body would produce bile that caused the skin to actually tint a shade of green... They also used a giant hook to pull the brain out through the nose of a dead compadre, so lets get real ancient history. All I see when that nasty feeling of resentment takes over is red. I am overcome by a blazing-hot, burn-to-the-touch sea of ruby red that blocks all common sense and reasoning abilities. If I could make the final decision, and good for me that here I am able to hold such a high-ranking positon, I would forever and always change that saying to "fiery red with envy."
Lets get one thing straight... throughout my life I have been very fortunate. I have never really wanted without receiving, and for that I could not be more thankful. I have an incredible family, a supportive and hilarious group of friends, and the physical abilities to make my life anything I want it to be. With that being said, this is my place to complain so put the judgey face away.
Now that I'm in my twenties, it seems as if jealousy is there to greet me at every turn. I can't get away. I'm not sure when this started, since I can't remember battling this demon much before, and unfortunately, I have recently come to the revolting realization that this red-eyed monster (see what I did there) might be here to stay. I am ashamed to admit that most of these feelings are of the most surface and superficial kind. And this is the reason I believe they are the most haunting. I consider myself to be a fairly intelligent individual (we all know that my early career in gifted classes was a false ego-pumping to what turned out to be an otherwise average intellectual existence) who enjoys learning about new cultures and cultivating hobbies that better myself and hopefully the lives of others. So why do I care that the girl in the dressing room next to me just asked the sales associate for a size 4? And why am I even paying attention to the cuddly couple sitting on the F train? I'm chalking this one up to just being human. And, you know what, I think that's reason enough.
Deep down, somewhere in the trenches of my envious mind, I find this desire to attain what others have as a positive motivator. If you are never pining after something, what is there to achieve? While your success should never be based on someone else, an accomplishment is an accomplishment and if it took Susie Q's excellent running form at the gym to motivate you to run three miles without stopping, then so be it. The minute I am complacent with my life is the minute things start to go down the drain, and fast. So sure, jealousy and tepid greed can be a positive, but when things become just a little bit out of your control is when the rage sets in.
Lets take the age-old love triangle for instance. This occurs when two people are together and there is a third person involved. Usually, in this case feelings are running haywire and someone is bound to get hurt. Although, most of the time with me, I miss the mark and then come to eventually realize that there was no third point in the relationship after all. It's just jealousy, she has him and you don't, the end, that's all she wrote. At first it's biting and all-consuming, we shall call this stage one of finding out the triangle is actually a straight line. Stage two is grief, the line connects the two of them and you, as the third triangle point, are no where on their geometrical radar. Stage three is where you want to get to, it's a glorious point in time when your friends fervently repeat that she could never compare with your humor, looks, sense of style (well, maybe not in my case), and overall aura. This stage is when you realize there is someone better out there and you'll be damned if you don't make him yours. Then you float back down to reality and face the fourth stage, which of course is just that it was not meant to be. Then you move on, as we all tend to do in life and pity the person you were at stage one. There is no denying that she was an uber bitch.
So relationships and pants sizes aside what else is there to be jealous about? I've never been one to oogle at anothers monetary gains or luxury vacations (the fear of flying knocks that sense of envy right out of me) so what else is there? The answer, as expected, is plenty. The job world for one, brings a whole new sense of coveting. I'm jealous of those that have been hired at a job that is intriguing and engaging and does not consist of sitting at a desk for 40+ hours a week. I'm jealous of those that love to fly. Shockingly, there are people out there that this pertains to. The list goes on... and then I start to hate myself so lets just pump the brakes. Because while I have been droning on about the unfairness of my first world problems, I remember all those billions of people that are envious of the food I grabbed out of my fridge this morning. My mind turns to all those that would kill, literally kill for the cushy life I have here in this free and democratic country. Heck, I'm allowed to write and post this for the simple reasons that I was lucky enough to get an incredible education, and currently am lucky enough to sit in an air conditioned room with more electricity than many small villages. I have never known real struggle, and as sad as it is, sometimes it takes the misfortune of others to allow me to appreciate how much good there is in my own life. When I understand just how privileged I have been and continue to be, stages 1-4 of the triangular love line incident seem to be laughable. Get a grip, Rosenthal, things are really not that bad.
Maybe, I am finally learning to cope with the menial jealousies of this happy and opportune life. Maybe I just need to realize that the worst things that have happened to me since being in my twenties are what others would call necessary experience and growth. Maybe I have been looking at this all wrong... we all want what we can't have and in a sick and sinister way that want is what makes this crazy world go 'round. I think I'm going to call this a breakthrough. No, I know I'm going to call this a breakthrough since it's not often that one sees his or herself grow before their very computer screen. This release from my spiteful rage might just be enough to pull me out of this bitter rut and put me back in a good place.
Jealous?
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Monday, September 17, 2012
If You Don't have Anything Nice To Say, Put It In An E-mail
We've all had bad days. Days that force us to gobble down a pack of leftover Girl Scout Cookies with such tenacity that the still-frozen-outer-layer just about cracks a tooth. Days that have left us in such torment that we feel the need to punish ourselves in the form of sad-song reprise. But not just any sappy song blaring out of the radio speakers will do, we want a song that directly transports us to a time of utter misery. For some of us those days morph into months of misfortune, and for the uber unlucky those months flash by and turn into the year from hell. It happens right beneath our unsuspecting, turned-up noses, and unless you take some drastic action, it could linger to the point of no return.
Thankfully, my streaks of calamity are always flanked by reprieves that cast a glimmer of hope - a day or two of worry-free living that results in a momentary lapse of stress. This blissful feeling is so calming that even the most angst-filled twenty-something is reinvigorated enough to leave the woe-is-me look at home, even if only for a few days. Let's all just recognize what a hyperbolic generation we have become. People throw around the phrase "kill me" as if it does not imply something very serious. It does, and now that I have acknowledged it, I admit that I have let these two terrifying words slip out a few times with full intentions of waking up the next day to experience life. We are an eye-rolling clan on the brink of true adult-hood, and boy do we like to exaggerate our first-world problems.
That said, sometimes a bad mood just takes hold and no one and nothing is safe. The rest of your cruel year seems like a Christmas morning in comparison... with a gloriously decorated tree surrounded by shiny, candle-filled menorahs and colorful Kwanzaa kaftans, for the plight of the terrible twenties does not discriminate based on religious conviction.
A few months ago, on a particularly dull day near the end of a less-than-stellar summer, I was having a few of those hours. I was furious at everything, but, since it was caused by nothing substantial, I could not ease my anger. I decided to direct this hot-bed of hatred toward those that seemed happy and fulfilled, particularly those that seemed eager to share their happiness and fulfillment with the rest of us via social networking capabilities. My resentment came out in the form of an e-mail titled "Today's Top 5." It was an emotionally charged message sent out to a hand-picked group of open-minded individuals describing why the gift of shared media was momentarily driving me up a wall and across the ceiling. Now I have chosen - after some badgering from the original audience - to share it with the world. I have a feeling half of you are the guilty perpetrators and the other half agree with me wholeheartedly, so at the risk of facing a massive onslaught of "defriendedness," I bring to you the most loathsome paragraphs that I have ever constructed:
Dear friends that have a great sense of humor,
As I sit here on this Friday afternoon waiting for the sweet relief of my lunch break, I have been, most definitely like most of you, perusing the Internet. My mouse has mostly fallen upon social media sites, and today they are infuriating me.
So I figured I would hand pick this group since not everybody can have the superb and high-level humor that we do. Really this is just a rant, so without further ado the Top 5 things that are annoying me on this Friday...
# 5: If you have a boyfriend (and congratulations if you do, you mother fucker) please refer to him by his name. A shortened version is just fine, but if you are reducing the poor guy to "my boy" or "the boy" I swear to god you are going to lose my respect and the respect of all the men in his life.
# 4: If "the boy" is so amazing that he gets you flowers/chocolate/a god damn 3-speed vibrator PLEASE refrain from snapping an Instagram shot and uploading it immediately to facebook. Wow, isn't that sweet... someone you probably cook, clean and suck dick for bought you a plant. I will never do this. If you have done that, I still love you, but I MOST DEFINITELY rolled my eyes at the computer screen. Unless my future boyfriend gets me something hilarious (like a book about farting) don't expect me to be uploading any time soon.
# 3: If you are going on vacation, please do not make other people feel bad about NOT escaping the monotony of everyday work life. I'm VERY happy for you, I am. But don't you even try to bitch and moan about packing/the plane flight/how small your hotel room is. I'll send someone (cause we all know I'm not getting on that plane) to find you in your probably-too-small-bikini and just slap the shit out of you.
# 2: If one more person takes a photo of their healthy/organic/green lunch I will vomit. I will vomit right here and now on this keyboard. I truly do not give a shit about what is going in your mouth at this very point in time. I actually don't even care if you went to a farm, milked a fucking cow for your cheese, slaughtered a free-range chicken, and picked the green beans yourself. I am eating nachos from a movie theater, and I bet you're jealous.
AND
#1: If you are going to the gym that is great. If you are going to the gym and must post it on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, Foursquare and fucking Pinterest then I hate you. I hate you deep, deep down with a firey passion. I hate you so much that in protest I will NOT go to the gym for AT LEAST 3 days. Ha. Go do your 30 minutes on the treadmill, but don't you dare make me feel bad about sleeping in/attending happy hour/laying in the park. I promise that while I'm doing those things you wish you were, too - probably with a side of movie theater nachos at your fingertips. This also means no motivational words of wisdom from some poster you found on dropthepounds.org. Don't tell me to "believe" in myself or to "live this day well." I do what I want. You believe in YOURSELF and live this day however you fucking want, just keep it to yourself because collectively we, as a facebook community, do.not.care.
I hope that you all still want to be my friends after reading this. If not, then I severely underestimated your sense of humor, but I do not apologize. And somewhere deep inside this black space that is currently substituting for a heart, I really do love you all.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
A Cloudless Morning Eleven Years Ago
Today is not a day to gripe about the "insufferable unfairness" that plagues us in our twenties. It is not a time to focus in on the drone of the job search or the uncertainty of our future relationships. Today is September 11, 2012, and like so many newscasters and morning anchors reported on various television and radio shows eleven years ago, it is a cloudless and clear Tuesday morning in Manhattan.
At 8:46 this morning I, along with hundreds of thousands across this incredibly strong nation observed a moment of silence to commemorate and remember the first plane crashing into the North Tower. During which I thought, of course, about the victims and their families, the indescribable bravery of the men and women that rushed up those stairs to help strangers and attempt to save lives, the terror that the passengers aboard the hijacked planes must have felt minutes before they were used as pawns in this horrific tragedy, and then for just a millisecond I let myself feel intense anger toward the men who turned their unreasonable hatred for us into a morning filled with so much grief and panic that we as a nation would never be the same.
The impact of American Airlines Flight 11 exploding into the shimmering glass of the North Tower was the beginning, the start of a new and wounded era in which Americans felt that safety and security was no longer a given just because we resided in one of the 50 states. Some that never thought twice about boarding a cross-country flight became a hyper-vigilant ball of nerves when passing through the security checkpoint in an airport. No one was to step foot inside Lady Liberty, the beacon of freedom for this country, for almost 8 years following the attacks. And, while I am a firm believer that the red, white and blue never ran and as a country we felt a bond like never before, we were now forced to live just a little bit scared.
Just last night I was discussing my morning commuting plans with my mother. As a self-proclaimed worry wart, I needed a second opinion about taking the 20-minute subway ride from the Upper East Side where I live to downtown Manhattan where I work. I explained to her that this meant passing through Grand Central Station on the always-overcrowded 6 train, and we agreed that I should make other arrangements to get to work. However, this morning when I woke up I decided that I would not allow myself to live scared. I don't want to use the phrase "if we live scared then the terrorists win," because I believe every single person that experienced or witnessed 9/11 has the right to live a more cautious existence where they feel it necessary. For example, I can promise you that I will absolutely never fly between the dates of September 10 and September 12. I can say with almost one hundred percent certainty that I would find it impossible to accept a job if it meant I would be working at One World Trade. I don't believe this means I am living scared, but the images have stuck with me and the feeling of that day's horror has just never quite left my memory, and how can it? This was the first major event in my generation that shook our sense of carefree living and shocked us to our core.
Three weeks ago, my dad and I visited the former site of Ground Zero. I have been told by many New Yorkers that the site that once smoldered with the smoke of the fallen towers should never again be referred to as Ground Zero. The rebuilding of One World Trade changed that. This does not mean that the twin towers are in any way forgotten, or that the victims should no longer be mourned. On our trip down to lower Manhattan, my dad and I, who are both extremely proud Americans, discussed where we were when we found out and how confusing it was at first. Thankfully, we were both safe at work and school in Florida, but that distance never seemed to matter. We were forever effected.
When we emerged from the subway on that hot August day and made our way to the memorial, my mind wandered to 2001. I remembered the images on the television screen of the dust-covered workers and bystanders that were running to escape the horror, and I couldn't help but imagining them on these very streets. I live about two and a half miles from the site, and have for about three years, but there is just something about being down here that hits me hard. I see Vessey Street and West Street and recall those names from many of the police radio reports that have been replayed throughout the years since the attacks. Every time I am down here, I remember.
Once we went through security, a dance that all Americans have become very accustomed to and a precaution that I wholeheartedly appreciate, we were allowed to enter the site of the memorial. I was immediately overwhelmed by the peacefulness and perfection that now inhabits the footprints of the fallen towers. It is hard to describe what one feels when visiting the memorial, since I'm sure each and every person connects differently. Personally, I felt a mixture of somberness and immense pride. As my dad and I were walking around the massive reflecting pools my heart ached. My hands glided along the names of the individuals that will forever be etched into the glossy black platforms surrounding the waterfalls. And what struck me immediately was the diversity of names that were spelled out before me. It seemed as though every single country on this vast planet was represented on this memorial, and I realized that this attack on American soil had spilled over the oceans and caused sorrow and tear shed in all corners of the world. New York is a melting pot where so many different cultures and religions are proud to call home, and so I should have assumed that the names on the plaques would reflect this diversity. I took it upon myself to honor each faceless name as an individual, each a person that touched countless lives. A person who had a family and a best friend, a person who had hopes and dreams for a future that would never unfold for them.
In the center of the reflecting pool the water drops off into what seems like an infinite space. No matter how tall you are or how much you strain to lift up on your tip-toes you can not see where the waterfall ends. And it was then I realized that every single thing that was constructed at this site was done so with great meaning. I interpreted the infinite waterfalls as a place where hope and a sense of inner peace reside. It is a place where people who pray could send their prayers and feel connected forever. There are more than 400 trees thriving around the memorial. To me, each tree symbolizes growth and serenity, a powerful combination that those directly effected need in order to cope with the events of this day eleven years ago and the loss they have felt in the time since. But most importantly, it is certainly a place where forgetting is an impossibility.
The plaza is also an indication of progression and a sign of the unparalleled strength and resiliency of these United States. Looming over the commemorative pools is the brand new One World Trade tower. I was able to get about 10 feet from the base and the height of that building is just incredible. Once finished, it will reach an emblematic 1,776 feet and already shoots up high above the rest of the New York City skyline. At night, when the city is wrapped in a cloak of darkness, One World Trade twinkles with the colors of our unwavering flag, and can be seen for miles across the Hudson. The structure stands in the same 16-acre plot of land as the reflecting pools, a statement that speaks of moving through the grief while never forgetting what has brought us to this point.
My decision to become a New Yorker was neither hindered nor enhanced by the events of September 11, but since becoming a resident of this unique and bursting city, I have found an American pride that I'm not sure existed before. While strolling along 6th avenue, I have the good fortune of catching a glimpse of the new building that trumps the skyscrapers that surround it. Every day on my walk home from work, I pass two firehouses that display the names and faces of their heroic brothers who would never return to those bright red houses. Those men suited up on that morning to try and put out a fire that would blaze on for decades. And as I sit at my desk in downtown Manhattan I feel so proud and completely honored to call this island home.
When Saturday Night Live returned to air on September 29, 2001, former Mayor Rudy Giuliani told America that is was OK to laugh again. As a New York City staple, SNL was the perfect place to allow the black cloud that had settled to be slightly lifted. It was the start to a healing process that would never fully finish, but it was a start nonetheless. New York City, Washington D.C., and Shanksville, Pennsylvania will forever be special places in the hearts of Americans. And with toughness, spirit and laughter I believe America will always remember while continuing to rebuild, proving why we are, indeed, the land of the free and the home of the brave.
At 8:46 this morning I, along with hundreds of thousands across this incredibly strong nation observed a moment of silence to commemorate and remember the first plane crashing into the North Tower. During which I thought, of course, about the victims and their families, the indescribable bravery of the men and women that rushed up those stairs to help strangers and attempt to save lives, the terror that the passengers aboard the hijacked planes must have felt minutes before they were used as pawns in this horrific tragedy, and then for just a millisecond I let myself feel intense anger toward the men who turned their unreasonable hatred for us into a morning filled with so much grief and panic that we as a nation would never be the same.
The impact of American Airlines Flight 11 exploding into the shimmering glass of the North Tower was the beginning, the start of a new and wounded era in which Americans felt that safety and security was no longer a given just because we resided in one of the 50 states. Some that never thought twice about boarding a cross-country flight became a hyper-vigilant ball of nerves when passing through the security checkpoint in an airport. No one was to step foot inside Lady Liberty, the beacon of freedom for this country, for almost 8 years following the attacks. And, while I am a firm believer that the red, white and blue never ran and as a country we felt a bond like never before, we were now forced to live just a little bit scared.
Just last night I was discussing my morning commuting plans with my mother. As a self-proclaimed worry wart, I needed a second opinion about taking the 20-minute subway ride from the Upper East Side where I live to downtown Manhattan where I work. I explained to her that this meant passing through Grand Central Station on the always-overcrowded 6 train, and we agreed that I should make other arrangements to get to work. However, this morning when I woke up I decided that I would not allow myself to live scared. I don't want to use the phrase "if we live scared then the terrorists win," because I believe every single person that experienced or witnessed 9/11 has the right to live a more cautious existence where they feel it necessary. For example, I can promise you that I will absolutely never fly between the dates of September 10 and September 12. I can say with almost one hundred percent certainty that I would find it impossible to accept a job if it meant I would be working at One World Trade. I don't believe this means I am living scared, but the images have stuck with me and the feeling of that day's horror has just never quite left my memory, and how can it? This was the first major event in my generation that shook our sense of carefree living and shocked us to our core.
Three weeks ago, my dad and I visited the former site of Ground Zero. I have been told by many New Yorkers that the site that once smoldered with the smoke of the fallen towers should never again be referred to as Ground Zero. The rebuilding of One World Trade changed that. This does not mean that the twin towers are in any way forgotten, or that the victims should no longer be mourned. On our trip down to lower Manhattan, my dad and I, who are both extremely proud Americans, discussed where we were when we found out and how confusing it was at first. Thankfully, we were both safe at work and school in Florida, but that distance never seemed to matter. We were forever effected.
When we emerged from the subway on that hot August day and made our way to the memorial, my mind wandered to 2001. I remembered the images on the television screen of the dust-covered workers and bystanders that were running to escape the horror, and I couldn't help but imagining them on these very streets. I live about two and a half miles from the site, and have for about three years, but there is just something about being down here that hits me hard. I see Vessey Street and West Street and recall those names from many of the police radio reports that have been replayed throughout the years since the attacks. Every time I am down here, I remember.
Once we went through security, a dance that all Americans have become very accustomed to and a precaution that I wholeheartedly appreciate, we were allowed to enter the site of the memorial. I was immediately overwhelmed by the peacefulness and perfection that now inhabits the footprints of the fallen towers. It is hard to describe what one feels when visiting the memorial, since I'm sure each and every person connects differently. Personally, I felt a mixture of somberness and immense pride. As my dad and I were walking around the massive reflecting pools my heart ached. My hands glided along the names of the individuals that will forever be etched into the glossy black platforms surrounding the waterfalls. And what struck me immediately was the diversity of names that were spelled out before me. It seemed as though every single country on this vast planet was represented on this memorial, and I realized that this attack on American soil had spilled over the oceans and caused sorrow and tear shed in all corners of the world. New York is a melting pot where so many different cultures and religions are proud to call home, and so I should have assumed that the names on the plaques would reflect this diversity. I took it upon myself to honor each faceless name as an individual, each a person that touched countless lives. A person who had a family and a best friend, a person who had hopes and dreams for a future that would never unfold for them.
In the center of the reflecting pool the water drops off into what seems like an infinite space. No matter how tall you are or how much you strain to lift up on your tip-toes you can not see where the waterfall ends. And it was then I realized that every single thing that was constructed at this site was done so with great meaning. I interpreted the infinite waterfalls as a place where hope and a sense of inner peace reside. It is a place where people who pray could send their prayers and feel connected forever. There are more than 400 trees thriving around the memorial. To me, each tree symbolizes growth and serenity, a powerful combination that those directly effected need in order to cope with the events of this day eleven years ago and the loss they have felt in the time since. But most importantly, it is certainly a place where forgetting is an impossibility.
The plaza is also an indication of progression and a sign of the unparalleled strength and resiliency of these United States. Looming over the commemorative pools is the brand new One World Trade tower. I was able to get about 10 feet from the base and the height of that building is just incredible. Once finished, it will reach an emblematic 1,776 feet and already shoots up high above the rest of the New York City skyline. At night, when the city is wrapped in a cloak of darkness, One World Trade twinkles with the colors of our unwavering flag, and can be seen for miles across the Hudson. The structure stands in the same 16-acre plot of land as the reflecting pools, a statement that speaks of moving through the grief while never forgetting what has brought us to this point.
My decision to become a New Yorker was neither hindered nor enhanced by the events of September 11, but since becoming a resident of this unique and bursting city, I have found an American pride that I'm not sure existed before. While strolling along 6th avenue, I have the good fortune of catching a glimpse of the new building that trumps the skyscrapers that surround it. Every day on my walk home from work, I pass two firehouses that display the names and faces of their heroic brothers who would never return to those bright red houses. Those men suited up on that morning to try and put out a fire that would blaze on for decades. And as I sit at my desk in downtown Manhattan I feel so proud and completely honored to call this island home.
When Saturday Night Live returned to air on September 29, 2001, former Mayor Rudy Giuliani told America that is was OK to laugh again. As a New York City staple, SNL was the perfect place to allow the black cloud that had settled to be slightly lifted. It was the start to a healing process that would never fully finish, but it was a start nonetheless. New York City, Washington D.C., and Shanksville, Pennsylvania will forever be special places in the hearts of Americans. And with toughness, spirit and laughter I believe America will always remember while continuing to rebuild, proving why we are, indeed, the land of the free and the home of the brave.
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