I'VE never been an envious person, but the winter of 2001 pushed my typical have-and-let-have temperament to the breaking point. It seemed that everywhere I looked, friends were buying new cars, remodeling kitchens, and trading juicy tips from their burgeoning stock portfolios. I, on the other hand, was experiencing my third or fourth wave of battle fatigue brought on by the vicissitudes of self-employment. It's not that I didn't want my friends to have so much good in their lives. I just wished a bit of it could dribble over the edges into mine.
This was the frame of mind I found myself in one April morning when it came time for a trip to the grocery store. It was there that I saw them, in the floral section by the front door. Lilacs. My secret weakness. My once-every-springtime indulgence. The botanical loves of my life.
Of course, I couldn't afford them. Not one single stem. Every penny was spoken for, committed to gas and diapers and the most economical food that my coupons and I could unearth. So this is what it's all come down to, I thought. Ten years of dedication and hard work—not to mention that expensive college education—and this year, for the first time in my adult life, I will not be buying a single bunch of lilacs. Envy, one of my least favorite emotions, gave way to the granddaddy of them all: self-pity. I shoved my empty grocery cart off in search of weekly specials.
