Is comparison the thief of joy?

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”– Theodore Roosevelt

When Corinne, from Everyday Gyann, encouraged readers to write a blog post that agreed or disagreed with this quote, I knew immediately which side I was on.

Not that there are any sides, mind you, since you can also take a “middle path” approach.

However, given I’m an all or nothing type woman, I believe comparison robs us of joy.

Before writing this post, I thought about which personal example I could use to back up my argument.

And the example that immediately came to mind was fashion magazines.

Yep. Fashion magazines.

When I was younger, I was addicted to magazines like Vogue, Elle, and Marie Clare.

These were the fashion bibles I consulted whenever I needed to know what to wear, how to look, and what to buy.

Like a starving castaway who’s stumbled upon a bunch of bananas, I gorged on the information these magazines provided; believing I was more beautiful, savvy, and trendy for following their recommendations.

Yet fashion magazines didn’t just rule my life, they ruled the lives of all my friends as well.

Every afternoon, we would get together to discuss the latest trends and styles.

Coffee cup in hand, we would pass judgement and snicker at anyone who passed in front of us wearing what we deemed to be out of style.

I would come home after these sessions to make lists of what I needed to wear, what make up I had to use, and even what I needed to eat, to look just like the models in the magazines.

The comparisons started off small.

“I could never pull off that look.”
“If only I had her ass.”
“If only I was that thin.”
“If only I had her hair.”

Before I knew it, I was convinced I could never measure up to the women featured on the glossy pages.

My self esteem plummeted.

My self confidence abandoned me and before long, I was suffering from a mild case of depression.

However, this didn’t stop me from browsing through the pages of Glamour, searching for ways to make my waist smaller, my hair shinier, or my lips fuller.

My friends felt the same sense of inadequacy at not being able to measure up to the long-legged models who resembled Barbie.

One afternoon, nana saw me lying listless on my bed; crying because I didn’t have a particular model’s long blonde hair.

“Bella, what’s wrong?”

“Nana, I’m not beautiful and that makes me sad.”

“Who told you that you’re not beautiful?”

“No one. I just know.”

Just then, nana spotted a magazine peeking out from under my bed.

“Have you been comparing yourself to the women in these magazines?”

“I’ll never be as beautiful as them.”

“You silly girl. You do yourself a disservice when you compare yourself to others. You are who you are for a reason. There is no else like you. You are unique. Enough said. Now go get cleaned up.”

As soon as I got up from the bed, nana picked up the pile of magazines and deposited them in the trash.

It was the last time I looked at a fashion magazine while nana was alive.

Fast forward I don’t know how many years and fashion magazines still have the same effect on me.

The minute I start looking at the leggy models with the perfect hair, I revert to making comparisons and before long, the joy has been sucked out of my day.

The other day I came across an online article that stated,  “A 1995 study found that three minutes spent looking at models in a fashion magazine caused 70% of women to feel depressed, guilty, and ashamed.“

Could these feelings be attributed to women comparing themselves to the air brushed models that grace the covers of these magazines but have been Photoshopped to within an inch of their lives?

I believe the answer is yes.

In comparing ourselves to women whose appearance has been modified by software, we are setting ourselves up to feel inadequate; frustrated by our inability to resemble such perfection.

I think it’s time we stop comparing ourselves to others and start appreciating our own beauty, talent, and uniqueness.

In the words of nana, “there’s no one like you,” and that alone should make us feel extraordinary.

Do you find comparison robs you of joy?

Today I’m linking up to the Comparison Blog Hop on Dangerous Linda and Everyday Gyaan.

Who wants to be Jim Caviezel’s Person of Interest?

This weekend allowed me the chance to catch up with some of my favorite shows; one of these being Person of Interest, starring Jim Caviezel.

If any of you follow me on Twitter, you know by now that I’ve been prone to tweet “I’ll be Jim Caviezel’s person of interest any day,” on more than one occasion.

And friends, I am not kidding.

After all, what woman can resist the allure of a tall, dark, handsome man who effortlessly kicks ass while wearing a suit?

And then, there’s always the plot.

Caviezel’s character, John Reese, is an ex CIA hitman who works with Finch (Michael Emerson), a computer geek who built a machine for the government that detects acts of terrorism before they take place. The machine separates the information into what it deems relevant and irrelevant. However, Finch discovers that the irrelevant information alerts to violent crimes. So, he creates a back door into the system that gives him the social security number of a person who is either going to commit a crime, or soon to be a victim. Together with John Reese, he works to prevent these crimes from happening.

When CBS started promoting the show, I instantly knew I’d be a fan.

Caviezel had already captured my heart with performances in movies such as The Thin Red Line, Angel Eyes, and Deja Vu.

And who could forget his stellar performance in the Passion of Christ?

In Person of Interest, his good looks are only the icing on the cake.

His voice, while soft, is menacing as he warns the bad guys that they’re soon to be in a world of pain.

We can only watch in awe as he effortlessly disarms his opponents without so much as disturbing his perfectly gelled hair.

Ladies, I won’t lie to you.

I take one look at this man in his crisp white shirt, smart shoes, and dark suit and I swoon.

I swoon, I tell you.

Last night, the only thing that prevented me from turning into a puddle of goo was the sound of the Significant Other’s voice.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I can hear you ooohing and aaahing all the way from here.”

“Shhh! I’m watching Jim Caviezel!”

“Jim, who?”

“Shhh! Your voice is preventing me from taking in all his hotness!”

“What happened to your romance with that Javier dude?”

“Javier, who?”

“And they say men are fickle. Will you be informing Javier that your heart belongs to another?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll send him a post-it.”

“Like the one you sent Antonio Banderas and me?”

“Yep. Just like that one.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing he has Penelope Cruz to help him pick up the pieces.”

Just then, I grab the post-it pad and scribble, “Sorry, Javier. There’s a new man in my life and his name is Jim.”

( I try to ignore how much I wish Jim’s name were something a little more exotic like Julian, Marcos, or Salvatore).

I sign my note, “Thanks for the memories, Bella.”

Something tells me Javier is going to be crushed that he’s no longer my person of interest.

Ladies, who’s your person of interest?

Do tell!

Is life passing us by?

cc licensed ( BY NC ND ) flickr photo shared by Chris Gin

Long after I’d eaten the bruschetta, drank the wine, and hung up the phone, my mind kept wandering to something my sister had said.

“Life is passing us by.”

For days, I’ve pondered if there’s any validity to this statement, or at least, if it applies to my life in any way, shape, or form.

However, my pondering hasn’t been continuous.

I’ve taken breaks.

I’ve let the words sink in; let them marinate.

After all, how can one dismiss or embrace such a statement without first letting it make a fold in one’s cerebral cortex?

As this thought process has taken shape, I’ve accepted that yes, there are days when I wake up and think, is this all there is to life?

But there are also days when I think, life is good.

What causes us to shift from one perspective to another?

What makes us believe that life is passing us by?

I think that at times it might be, for example, discovering that a friend has gotten a promotion at work, or that an acquaintance is going off to explore the pyramids in Egypt.

Other times, we might find ourselves embracing this train of thought when we look in the mirror and see how premature wrinkles and gray hairs have made an appearance, without so much as a word of warning.

And yet other times, we may realize that another month has passed and we don’t have any recollection of where the time went or how we spent it.

In some of these circumstances, we might choose to be happy for the parties involved; we might choose to ignore the signs of aging and accept them as life’s natural course.

But when we don’t, when we’re hell bent on thinking we’re not the ones progressing in our careers, or seeing the tombs of ancient pharaohs, that’s when we might start believing life is passing us by.

But is life really passing us by, or is our attitude prompting us to feel this way?

I believe that while it’s true that life is passing, it’s not passing us by.

Instead, we’re steering its course; we’re playing a lead role in its grand scenario.

Because life is not static.

It doesn’t stand still when things are bad or good.

Life continues to move forward and we continue to evolve, but only if we choose to do so.

If, on the other hand, we elect to stay immobile, stubbornly refusing to take a step, life will not pass us by, but we will remain in the same place, the same spot, until we choose to take a step.

Backwards, sideways, forward, or at an angle, the choice is up to us.

No one can tell us what to do.

It’s our life, after all.

However, if at any time we’re feeling like life is passing us by, this could be life’s way of telling us something is wrong.

Our frustration, angst, and dissatisfaction could very well stem from the fact that we’re not happy; that we don’t feel fulfilled.

Nevertheless, it’s up to us make a change.

And in taking the necessary steps to change our circumstances, we will influence how we see life’s passing.

Have you ever felt that life is passing you by?

Can someone pass the bruschetta?

cc licensed ( BY NC ND ) flickr photo shared by Felipe Neves

Last night, as I carried out the preparations that would ensure an eve of much deserved rest and relaxation, I heard the worst sound a woman hell-bent on unplugging can possibly hear–the phone ringing.

Carefully placing my wine glass on the table, I hurried to pick up, all the while praying it was a telemarketer asking if I wanted to buy a time share in the Cayman Islands.

But alas, such was not my luck.

I had barely said hello when I heard my sister screech, “Do you know that So and So just got back from skiing in Austria? Skiing! In Austria! And the bitch came back with a tan! I tell you Bella, life is passing us by, sister. Passing us by!”

I braced myself and made a grab for the wine glass, certain it was going to be one of those conversations.

Taking a sip of my wine and a bite of my bruschetta, I settled comfortably on the couch.

“We’re in our forties! In our forties, I tell you! And what have we done with our lives besides ruining our shapes and acquiring stretch marks from giving birth? Nada, I tell you! Nada!”

For some reason, she was repeating the last phrase and/or word of everything she said.

I poked a breadstick into the humus and tried to chew quietly.

“And these kids! If we could at least say, my son the doctor or my daughter the rocket scientist, but hell no! We’re lucky we can say, my son the student! Really, how long is it going to take them to get their Bachelor’s degree? I’m already fifty thousand dollars in the hole! But even so, I’ll consider myself lucky if my firstborn gets a job as a manager at Best Buy.”

I inhaled the heavenly scent of olive oil as I dipped a piece of crusty bread in it.

“And you! All that slumming you do, dressing like a homeless person, and for what? Yes, Bella, mark my words. The angel of death will soon greet us and all of this sacrifice will be for nothing!”

I grabbed the tiny spreading knife and spread brie on a cracker.

“I had dreams, you know. You had dreams! You were going to win a Pulitzer! And me? I was going to discover the cure for Alzheimer’s. But the way this is going, we’ll be lucky if we get Alzheimer’s so we can forget how we pissed our lives away. Pissed our lives away!”

I slowly inched for the wine bottle and poured myself a second glass.

“I was going to live in a fancy house, drive a fancy car, dress in fancy clothes, and walk a fancy dog. Instead, I’m stuck in this money pit with a leaky roof, drive a second-hand passenger van, wear whatever’s on clearance at Target, and my idea of walking the dog is putting him out on the doorstep and telling him to pee and scratch the door when he’s done.”

I bit into another bruschetta and repositioned the cushion behind my lower back.

“And you! Your idea of action is walking Roxy in the forest wearing those hideous sweatpants and that old polar fleece jacket that’s full of dog hair! I cannot believe you’re not upset by all that is happening to us. Or I should say, NOT happening to us. We should be on the arm of men like Gerard Butler or Jim Caviezel, dining and wining on the Amalfi Coast. Instead, we’re lucky if Laurel and Hardy take us to the drive-thru at Mickey D’s!”

I slowly unfolded my cloth napkin and delicately wiped the corners of my mouth.

“Where did we go wrong, Bella? Where? We’re educated women. We speak three languages. We graduated Magna Cum Laude, for the love of God! We dated good looking men. We were good to mom, dad, and nana. Why does the Universe hate us? Why aren’t we the ones returning with our dentist husband from a skiing holiday, sporting a freakin’ tan? Why, Bella, why?”

I reached for the wine bottle and poured myself a third glass.

“Bella? Are you listening to me? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Woman, I have heard every word you’ve said. Are you done?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Much better.”

“Good.”

“Next week, same time?”

“You betcha.”

Does venting help you feel better?