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Several years ago, I was invited to the home of a new acquaintance. I'd met Stacey at church and thought we might have a lot in common. She and her husband had eaten dinner with my husband, Rick, and me. Over barbequed steak and baked potatoes, we women agreed we should get together at her place sometime the next week.
Three days later, I called to get directions to her house and was taken aback by the address Stacey gave. She named a certain subdivision out by the car dealership. Surely she hadn't meant that subdivision. It was The Neighborhood.
You know what I'm talking about—it's the neighborhood you tool through on negative-checkbook- balance weeks just to make you feel a little lousier. It's the neighborhood that makes you curse your lot in life (your house lot, that is) and makes you realize you can't even afford the mulching attachment on the yard tractor being used to manicure the lawns.
To be honest, I was hoping Stacey lived in a neighborhood … well, like mine. When I thought back to my small dining room where I'd served her and her husband dinner, I cringed. The anxiety I felt while driving across town attested to the insecurity that crept into my mind.
I pulled to a stop on a spotless concrete driveway that made me nervous because my car leaked oil. As Stacey walked from the house and greeted the kids, my eyes were drawn to her home's gorgeous, professional landscaping. Good grief! This woman had more money in perennials than I had in my savings account!
The children followed Stacey inside. I slithered behind. As I stepped into her living room, I heard myself gasp—out loud, at that. There, before my eyes, was a room straight out of an Ethan Allen showroom. The carpet was plush, the color of a white, sandy beach; her window treatments were not cotton panels from the local Wal-Mart, but exquisite, custom-made drapes.
As she led us through that stunning room, casually chatting with the children, I felt sick to my stomach. With a faux smile plastered on my green face, I followed her through her well-appointed home to the "playroom." I believe it was at this point I officially passed out.
You know what? I can't remember anything about that day—other than the twisting knife of envy that gutted my enjoyment. Stacey was a warm, wonderful hostess, but I didn't hear a word she said that day. That's because my covetous spirit was too busy evaluating everything I saw in her home, from the porcelain figurines in a cherry curio cabinet to a five-piece furniture suite in her ample master bedroom. Sadly enough, Stacey probably had no idea this was going on in my mind.
I never did see Stacey after that visit. And you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out why. My distorted, jealous thoughts short-circuited any possible friendship. Because of where she lived and the type of home she had, Stacey had become the other woman—someone who seemed to have everything materially that I wanted … and lacked.
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