Comparison Is The Thief Of Joy

Otherwise known as: Why Facebook is the Devil.

Or in my world: There's always going to be someone smarter, prettier, funnier, skinnier, richer, cooler, more successful, more talented, (etc. etc. etc.) than me - as shoved in my face by The Book.  For real.  So it's essential for me to remember that everyone has their own journey, I am right where I am supposed to be, and everything will unfold in it's own divine and appropriate timing, blah blah blah.

This still doesn't thwart my wild, off-the-cuff jealous streak whenever a friend actualizes some good fortune, either personally or professionally.  My knee jerk reaction is to set them on fire, but instead I smile and congratulate them through gritted teeth and say, "I'm so happy for you…" until I convince myself I mean it.

Example:  All of you fucks getting married and having perfect babies.  I don't want to begrudge your happiness, but when you litter my Facebook feed with sunshine and rainbows, you leave me no other choice.  Instead of catching a ride on your wave of bliss, I'm falling down the rabbit hole of all the ways my life lacks your joy.  Then the maniacal laughter kicks in as the tears begin to fall and I'm rocking back and forth like goddamn Rain Man, repeating over and over that being single and family-less is "my choice."

Or YOU (amazingly talented person who sits across from me at work), with your perfect personality and fun Southern heritage who just happens to be brilliant at writing and is starting to scratch the surface of success… YAY FOR YOU, buddy!  You're like the Jackie to my Marilyn, and you deserve to see your dreams come true.  I'm so happy for you.

Does all this make me a bad person?  Am I a total asshole, or am I just human?  Because the fact of the matter is I just can't seem to help myself, and jealousy is like a welcome mat for doubt - which barges into my house, robs me of my prosperity, and then bitch slaps me on it's way out - leaving me filled with resentment and bitterness.

I realize this isn't exactly a shining endorsement of my character.  In fact, I think this would technically fall under the "character defects" category, but it's a malady from which I suffer.  I figure, why not see if a little honesty will expunge me of it's grip?  Because as of right now, the horror I face today isn't "the funny story I will tell tomorrow," it's actually my reflection in the mirror.

The truth of the matter is that success and happiness aren't measured in finite terms.  There's enough to go around.  One person's success and another's happiness doesn't lessen the amount from the Universal bank.  In fact, the happier and more successful people I'm surrounded by, the greater the odds I will see my own, because positivity is just as infectious as negativity if I allow it to penetrate my stone cold heart.  After my flash of insecurity passes, this is the place I land - because ultimately, I want to be a champion for my friends.  It's easier to love than it is to hate.  Also because bitterness and resentment cause wrinkles, and I can't afford regular Botox on my assistant salary.

I Have Man Hands

My body is a wonderland... of quirkiness.  For example: I have an extra rib.  True story - it's a little nubbin of a rib, a riblett, if you will - located on my right side, which, subsequently, is smaller than the left side of my body.  My right foot is smaller than my left, my left breast is larger than my right.  I have teeny, tiny little ears. (If you thought I was going to say nipples, wrong.  Those are like flap jacks.  Just kidding, they're small, too).  But seriously, I have elf-like ears.  Like I could totally be in Lord of the Rings or something.  And I have huge feet that match my ginormous man hands.

That's right - I have man hands.  Standing 5'9" is apparently no excuse for this abhorrent anomaly from which I suffer.  There is NOTHING sexy about a pair of mittens that can palm a basketball, or a couple meat paws that could literally tear someone's face off.  I became aware of this very fact the moment Jerry Seinfeld dedicated an entire episode of nothing to the topic of man hands (above).  I knew I needed to put a spin on this situation, stat, but failed to see the silver lining in this:

A "BIG BOX" of Junior Mints, for scale.

THIS is what I'm dealing with - a hand that covers a big box of Junior Mints.  For the record, this bad boy weighs in at 12 ounces, with dimensions that stand at 10.01 x 5.38 x 7.5 (inches).  If you're reading between the lines, which I'm sure you men are starting to do, it means that anything less than 7.5" long is going to look very, very small in my hands.  Did I mention the average penile length of an erect, red-blooded American male is 5.6"?  That may or may not be dead on, but… C'mon, Science!

Now do we understand the severity of my problem?  Compounding matters is my permanent Dr. Evil pinky (see above), which I broke some years back in a wicked game of drunken Dodgeball, and never participated in PT after my surgery.  So not only are my hands big, they're also ugly.  But I digress.

I know what you're thinking, "Get over yourself, Carey.  It's not all about you.  Look at the bigger picture:  We're dealing with a National epidemic of tiny proportions!"  To those of you I say: Go fuck yourselves.  A) because it's always about me, and B) there are a bajillion tiny girls in this country who can make 5.6" look HUGE.  Lacking is the quantity of men who won't feel immediately emasculated the second I take their best friend into my hand.  This all spells out a lifetime of loneliness for me.  I mean, I can only get by on my stunning charm for so long.  And believe you me, Botox isn't gonna cut it in the looks department forever.

So, I'm contemplating metacarpal surgery to remove some phalanges (no idea if that makes any sense, but I'm gonna run with it).  I think by taking away some length I can trick a cursory eye into believing I have petite and dainty hands.  I mean, it's worth a shot.  It's not like I'm reinventing the wheel or anything, people do fucked up shit to their bodies all the time: stretching their necks, binding their feet, women implant boobies, men remove ribs so they can suck their own ding-dongs… it takes all kinds.  My point is, I'm no more a weirdo than any of the other weirdos out there making doctors rich.

I realize I've completely gone off the rails with this topic.  I've over-sexualized everything, but more importantly, I don't even know my own strength!  These hands are a menace to society and small animals.  I'm like Lennie in Of Mice and Men.  I just want to tend the bunnies!  I don't mean to kill them!

It's settled.  I'm chopping them off.  The hands are coming off entirely.