(An Exercise in Cathartic Writing)
There she goes again.
Like clockwork. Scripted. I’ve come to know the lines and it’s all pretty sad.
Pretty played out.
I’m getting rankled.
What is it about jealousy?
Why can such negative emotions be so infectious at times? The go-to response. The instant reaction.
I sit playing with the magazine on my lap.
Disinterested. Acting. Calm.
Yet all the while I observe the scene with a measure of distaste.
This is not the first time.
And I’m not even sure that the word jealous is the correct one.
Disturbed or uncomfortable? Something that is just a bit not right. A little thorn pricking my side.
Because I am not jealous of her. Not in the first definition sense anyway.
But perhaps, just a bit, ‘showing suspicion of someone’s unfaithfulness.’ Her unfaithfulness.
Rather curious about their motives. Well, her motives.
Why such a fuss?
Let me explain.
What they say is true. I am entering my third trimester and am beginning to feel a bit like a beached beluga whale. Largish. Less mobile. And completely out of my environment.
Physical changes that betray my twangs of insecurity.
So it stands to reason that I would prefer to not witness certain women, a certain woman, go to such great lengths to fawn over my husband in this rather sickeningly-sweet way.
A woman who just stopped by.
Who was not invited, but stayed. And did not just stay, but languished.
My adoring and rather oblivious man. Seemingly attentive and mindful, in a distracted sort of way.
he isn’t noticing.
He’s thinking about the film he is making. I can see it on his face. He sits next to me on the couch. He engages politely and charmingly in conversation. He knows his part. But his mind is contemplating such deep questions as to whether he should use Greek letters or Chinese to ornament the dozens of eggs he has bought for the next day’s shoot.
He isn’t actively aware of the constant barrage of flattery directed his way.
Were I to bring it to his attention he would laugh. Impervious.
I adore him.
I adore that this is where his mind goes and that I always know.
I adore his innocence and immunity to the endless compliments. That for him life is art.
His mind reels with it. There’s little room for much else.
He loves me. He loves our life, our art, our singular and collaborative endeavors. This is not threatened.
Yet all the while I begrudge that this is being done. This turn of conversation, continuously directed back to the sole man in the room and his glowing good qualities.
That I should be contending with such things.
And it’s not as if I don’t agree.
It’s not as if I don’t often voice these things myself.
But there is a difference. I am his wife.
I stay silent.
I am aware that I married a wonderful man.
I am aware of all his good traits.
They do not have to be highlighted and gushed over in his presence, in my presence, as though she were a small school-girl seeking approval.
I married the man. I had my reasons.
Oh, why do I feel this way?
Why should I care?
I think it really must have something to do with my altered condition.
I begin to suspect that this sort of overt flattery has heightened in direct proportion to the growth of my stomach. My slight frame metamorphosing into Venus of Willendorf.
And then I wonder if perhaps I am deceiving myself in this.
I might just be noticing it more.
Yet every once in awhile I feel like picking up the vase on the table and smashing it against the wall.
Near her head.
Just to break things up a bit. Not her. Just the rather dull direction of the conversation.
Because honestly. This does grate a bit.
Such constant adulation begins to ring false.
Too much. Too often. Always. Expected.
I have the script down. I know what to expect.
I don’t doubt the security of my relationship.
I don’t mistrust my position.
But at the moment I would rather she just not have come by in the first place.
I want her to leave.
23rd April 2013