No Comparison

Happy Friday. I've found that too often I compare myself with others only to find out later that they've eyed me with similar feelings of inadequacy. The following story is birthed from at least two situations and conversations I've encountered in the past eight months.

NO COMPARISON

I sat across the room from her. To describe her as gorgeous was an ambiguous way of saying every line, every curve of her face, each hair on her head, breathed perfection. But she insisted she was nowhere near it. She had no idea. I guess that’s what made her all that much more beautiful. She never felt the need to prove to anyone her worth. Her shoulders squared, neck long, chin held up—but not so high that people thought her a snob. No. in fact, it was the opposite. Grace and poise was to her as a magnet is to metal. 

Of course, I couldn’t approach her. In her perfection, my imperfection would be too obvious and probably reduce the property value of the ground her chair rested on.  The other “perfects” swarmed her, leaving no room for those like me anyway. If in a moment of insanity I did attempt to attract her attention, she wouldn’t notice; but if she did, she’d probably swat me away like one does a gnat.

Soon, she rose from her throne and floated by with the other perfects. I wasn’t trying to listen, but was trapped by their words. Each of them vied for the place of most importance with her, like she was some dignitary—an ambassador from Paradise Island—sent to us so we can see what it looks like to be among the human race’s most desirable. 

Many spoke in tones and with words that stretched their vocabulary to such degrees I was certain they would snap under the strain of trying to measure up to her perfection. Some listed the initials that followed their names as though if stacked high enough, they could stand on them to raise their height to match hers. Still, their perfection was inferior.

Her graciousness, however, tugged her lips from each end into a curve that revealed a smile so magnificent and brilliant one would have to be blind to miss the light that shone from her. I shrank into my corner, wilting into nothing.

Wretched, plain looking, poor, and without one initial to stand upon, I knew I was in the wrong place. The clothes on my back—thrift store finds—were probably from one of her donations. It was time for me to quit trying to fit into a puzzle I wasn’t created for and take my leave. No one would notice my absence any more than they knew of my presence, so announcing my departure was unnecessary.

I made my way through the room and down the hall. Threading around people too deep in conversation to note my need to get by was a challenge. But I succeeded, walking out the door without having to ask a soul to “excuse me”.  I managed to weave around the stragglers lingering about on the walkway to the street—unnoticed. It was just as well. No expectations meant no disappointments.

Before I cleared the corner of the building, I heard something. I wondered if it was someone battling allergies or sinus trouble the way they sniffled. Curious, I followed the sounds into a darkened crevice. “Please, can’t you just leave me alone?” The voice was thick, strained as though pushing through knotted webs. I couldn’t see the person, but by the tone, I guessed this was a woman—crying perhaps?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” I turned to leave her alone. It’s what she obviously wanted, hiding out here in the dark. But as I stepped away, I felt as though something clutched my shirt, holding me in place. Not sure what to do, I stood there, eyes closed, I wished some banner or teleprompter would show up to tell me what to say. “Are you OK?” I don’t remember speaking, but it sounded like my voice traveling along the airwaves.

She stepped toward me. Her face streaked, black from mascara running to her chin. The hint of a smile played on her lips. “Why do I feel so dead inside?”

“What?” I looked around. Seeing no one, I guessed she must be talking to me. “What do you mean?”

She sniffled then wiped her nose with a wadded tissue. With a wave of her hand, she spoke.  “All this stuff.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve scraped and clawed to get it. Everything you see is plastic. I was told it would be enough. But I feel so dead.”

“Do you have any idea who I am?” My brain was still whirling. Why would she notice me?

“Of course I do. I’ve watched you since we were kids. You’re so strong and – and alive.”

Oh man. Have I missed something? Here I was feeling like a pauper because I didn’t stack up to her, and she looked at me as having what she didn’t and needed. “I’m sorry.” I stared into the blackened sky.

Help me I’ve compared my temporal lack with someone who needs eternal wealth.