Resentment

Someone I know has just admitted that he is a millionaire, after being a poor student only a few years ago  He's handsome, manly, nice, and loved by his family.  And I am filled with resentment.  For I have to count every dollar.  We need a wood heater in our house and I can't afford one.  I work in a job where I'm paid half of nothing, I'm very far from handsome.  I am not manly.  And I'm not nice.

Resentment is so ... shabby.  Unattractive.  Mean.  I should not feel it.  I should be happy for him.  After all, his prosperity doesn't harm me.  His luck doesn't mean that I'm unlucky.  It's just the way it is, right?  I'm unlucky, and he is not.  And, anyway,  he's worked hard to get where he is now.  But what I realised is that perhaps, underneath my resentment, fueling it, is a trace of dislike.  After all, I don't feel much personal resentment towards Rupert Murdoch.  I mean, I don't care for him or his politics.  But I don't resent his wealth or influence.  I don't know him.  He's a cartoonish figure somewhere far away.  And so, the reason I resent my friend is more personal.  I'm angry, somewhere in me, at him, and I have transferred this anger and dislike onto his achievements.   Rather pathetic, really.

As I said, I'm not a nice person.  And I think as I get older, I get less nice.  That's rather dispiriting, neh?