You are currently browsing the daily archive for March 5th, 2008.
A friend of mine just got engaged. Last night, I think, though I wouldn’t exactly know since she announced it by sending out a mass e-mail to everyone in the world including my boyfriend but not me. This really could have been well-intentioned: of course she knew he’d tell me. And she and her now-fiance were friends with him first, anyway. She has my e-mail, though, and it’s not like she’s never used it. It’s right there next to my cell number in her blackberry, I imagine. Whatever.
J just called me at work, apparently under the impression that I knew. I could say that the feelings of sadness/loss/abandonment I’m trying (frantically) to conceal and smother under file folders and piles of work are because I feel left out of the loop, but that isn’t quite it.
I’m jealous. This jealousy is upsetting, and as much as I know that it’s ridiculous, I still can’t seem to quash it. If I was single, it would make a lot more sense for me to sit here and say, woe is me, I’ll never be that happy. I’m not, though; I’m happy and content with J. I’m comfortable in the assumption that I’m going to marry him someday, when the time is right, when we’ve worked through what we’ve worked through and are more on the track of “ready.”
Ready is not yet; for us to get engaged right now would be unwise, for lots of reasons. I should be secure in this, right, and happy for her? One would think. However, my mental self-portrait at the moment stars an alarming image of a diamond-hungry seething little fanged monster. It isn’t pretty.
Engagements are happy, yes? I should be gushing, yes? This couple is living together. They’re totally in love and I know she’s wanted to get married for a long time. So what’s wrong with me? I’m the kid who spends the whole super-fun party crying in the corner because it isn’t my birthday, and as a consequence misses out on all the cake.
I only hope I would have been happier if she herself would have called. I think it was something about hearing from J; hearing something I want so badly fall out of his mouth but about someone else.
I felt like slamming the phone down, hastily leaving work, and heading across the street for the maximum amount of alcohol the friendly bartenders can fit in a martini glass. I don’t even feel like me.
“Magda?” J said to my silence. “Are you there?”
Am I?
