I was envious of my friend, L, when we were in our twenties. She was blond, blue-eyed, thin and extremely pretty. My dark brown hair was wild and curly and I was certainly not “pretty.” Or thin. L married a guy who went into his father’s successful business and had oodles to spend. I married a struggling artist. She lived in a big apartment on Park Avenue. I lived in a smallish apartment in a decidedly less glam part of town. Her mother treated her like a princess. My mother wasn’t especially adept at making anyone feel special. L had a maid. I got down on my hands and knees and cleaned my own toilets.
You get the picture.
As the years went on, my envy of L (or anyone else) dissipated. I became more secure and recognized what a textured life I had. I understood that grand, rich, and pretty are only adjectives. They don’t define a person. I saw time and again that while rich can be fun, it doesn’t protect you from illness and tragedy. Pretty fades.