Comparison
“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
The day is Thanksgiving. The year 2008. The place is Southern California, our home. The weather is mild. It is sunny, hazy, and beautiful. I am walking. I am wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a light sweatshirt. My hands are in my pockets. I am forty-six-year-old married woman and a mother of two boys; nine and eleven.
The cars line the street outside of Peter and Christine’s home. Pat and Gerry have their family over too. There is virtually no place to park on the entire block and laughter spills out onto the street.
My husband is watching TV. Our youngest is reading a book or playing on the computer. Our elder boy is out with friends. I have attempted to prepare a meal that is out of my comfort zone in hopes that someone will want to sit down with me and eat it. It is late in the afternoon. Even though there are more people in our neighborhood than on any other day of the year, I am lonely.
As I glance at each of the thirteen homes that make up our double cul-de-sac, there are a few things of which I am sure. Each home is lovely. The marriages are intact. The kids do not fight. The tables are beautifully decorated. The turkeys are cooked to perfection with all of the trimmings and the man in each home lives to celebrate Thanksgiving with his family. It is clear to me that everyone else on the street is having a great holiday.
I am yearning for connection; for their families, their lives, and their marriages. I know that I am not a good enough cook, wife, mother or daughter. I cannot seem to get it right. I know I am weird. I know I am different. This day is hard for me when it should be easy. What on earth is the matter with me?
I am alone in the street. I am yearning for more. I am peering longingly into the window of the woman next door.