The Gift of Envy
The summer I was 20 years old, I worked as a maid at the Sahara Tahoe Hotel and Casino. My uniform consisted of an orange-and-blue plaid smock like those worn by pretzel vendors at major league football games. The smock was matched with a pair of dark blue polyester pants with a thick elastic waistband and crotch that hung to mid-thigh. It was a uniform custom fit for pregnant maids, or maids with extremely short legs. I was neither.
If I rolled up the waistband to adjust the crotch, the pants rose to mid-calf exposing white legs and short dark socks. If I left the waistband as it was, the long crotch caused me to walk as if I had braces on my legs. In retrospect, I realize the job was one of those life-changing events that woke me up to the value of a college education. But at the time, I was too distracted by envy.
You see, I had applied at the hotel along with a number of women I knew from college. After my application was processed, I was handed a pair of yellow rubber gloves and instructed on the importance of creating triangular "courtesy folds" on the rolls of toilet paper in each guest bathroom.
"At the Sahara Tahoe, these details matter," the trainer explained with an earnestness that far outstripped the subject matter.
Two of my friends, however, were granted vastly different assignments. One, a blonde beauty straight off the set of a 1940's film noir, was hired as a lifeguard. Another was hired as the pool's cocktail waitress. Both of them were named Karen.
Every day from my perch inside the guestrooms on the upper floors, I could see the Karens "working" in the sun alongside the hotel's large blue pool. Gripping a toilet brush in one hand, a wastebasket in the other, I felt like the mongrel puppy at an animal shelter that has to compete with purebred Collies for adoption. Even the two-dollar tip I occasionally plucked from used pillowcases didn't alleviate my deep-seated envy.
Of course, at the time, I rationalized my employment situation in the most mature way I knew how: "I'm too fair skinned to be a lifeguard and not slutty enough to be a cocktail waitress."
Sadly, my jealously over the Karens was not an isolated event. Envy is something I've battled ever since I entered the work world, although it often lurks -- at least for a while -- behind other emotions.
I listen to accomplished writers at bookstore readings and comment, with the thin-lipped superiority of a New York Times book critic, about how the writer wasn't that funny, or how unfortunate it was that her last three books didn't sell as well as the first.
I learn about a 13-year-old art prodigy who's commanding six figures for original oils and state, with Freudian concern, how tragic it is she doesn't have time for hopscotch.
Sometimes, though, the envy is more apparent.
For example, I recently learned that a cousin, now in his mid-30s, had just masterminded his second takeover of an ailing pharmaceutical company. All I could think about was how lamentable it was that my resume didn't boast a single corporate takeover.
Among the many other professionals I've envied are, in no particular order, jailhouse ministers, symphony conductors, playwrights, art house auctioneers and anthropology professors. I've also found myself wishing I could be more like people who wear loud clothing or sport colorful tattoos. (Just for the record, I have never envied politicians or accountants.)
For a time I thought my chronic sense of envy was the result of a basic dissatisfaction with my own career choices. But several years ago, I came to realize that envy is so much more than insecurity.
On September 11, 2001, I sat riveted to television footage of New York City firefighters clawing their way through the rubble that was once the World Trade Center. As I watched them working covered with sweat, grime and unspeakable grief, I began thinking about the truly important work firefighters do. I began to envy their commitment and determination, their bravery and sense of civic duty. I found myself wondering if I was too old to become a firefighter, completely overlooking the fact that I'm a wuss who's scared of both fire and heights.
Watching the firefighters in their yellow slickers, I began to wonder: perhaps envy is not solely the result of insecurity or unhappiness. Perhaps it's also about admiration. Perhaps we envy people because they exhibit the qualities and traits and abilities that matter to us, the abilities that we wish we had more of, the abilities to we are working to develop.
Thinking back, when I was 20, I envied the Karens because they set out to get fun jobs that summer, while I simply took what was available.
The writers I've most envied are those who write with brilliance and are disciplined enough to complete whole novels year after year.
And I envied my cousin because he's young, smart as a firecracker and goal-minded - all of which are qualities I wish I had more of. Especially youth. And smarts.
In fact, when I think about it, I admire success, public service, artistry, loyalty, confidence and devotion in any form, and the people I've envied most are those who exhibit those qualities in spades.
Now, whenever I feel the sickening knife-twist of envy, I don't automatically assume it's because I've accomplished less than I think I'm able. Instead, I try to see what it is about the person I envy that I also admire. In a sense, the people I'm most jealous of are those who can plug me back into my own value system and remind me about the characteristics and behaviors that I find important.
The writers, artists, firefighters and yes, cocktail waitresses in my life have all given me a tremendous gift: the gift of envy. Now, if I can only teach them about the vital importance of triangular courtesy folds.
Copyright, 2005, Shari Caudron.
Shari Caudron is an award-winning columnist, writing coach, and author of "What Really Happened," a collection of humorous stories about the lessons life teaches you when you least expect it. Shari regularly delivers speeches to women's groups about how to transform ordinary experiences into opportunities for personal growth.