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She's Younger than You

About a year ago, when Andy and I returned home from work one day, we heard a message on the answering machine. It was some insurance woman or someone like that, leaving an uninteresting message for Andy. I paid little attention to the voice until Andy simply stated, "You know, she's younger than you."

That stopped me in my tracks. "What do you mean, she's younger than me? What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.

"I dunno. It doesn't matter." Andy back-tracked. "She's younger than you."

A stupid statement that cost Andy the rest of the night. I could not forget those words he said nor could I stop trying to decode their meaning. I bombarded him with questions. Who was the woman on the phone? How did Andy know her? What did she look like? Was she younger than me? Why did any of this matter to Andy?

My husband usually knows better than to provoke the jealous green monster that lives within me and hides in my insecurity. It's not like I ever worried about "getting a man" or competing with other women. I usually got what I wanted and felt my self-confidence and fabulous personality trumped any physical inadequacies. I am possessive by nature and once I've decided what I want, nobody is taking it away from me.

Since Andy is Ben Affleck's twin, I know he has his admirers. Most of them are old enough to be my mom and it's flattering to know that I have an attractive spouse. That doesn't mean that I want to hear about it or think about it. That's why Andy knows better and I rarely ever hear him make any comments about another woman's appearance.

The other night, we went with a group of friends on the local Blues Train, aka "booze train." Notorious for nothing to do for three hours but drink, it is rare to escape the trip without getting intoxicated. Unless you are the designated drivers, which Andy and I were on this particular outing. We watched as our drunk friends danced and generally made fools of themselves. For once I wasn't mad that I was the sober one and I even appreciated being the pukers helper at the end of the night. Yes, I've got tissues. Yes, I've got water. Yes, I'll hold back your hair while you yack on the side of the road.

I was also lucid enough to notice that the single gal in the group was behaving badly. A purported nice girl, this chick made me uncomfortable the whole night. She was flirty with all of the guys and they ate it up. The drunk and the sober crowded around her, eyes and jaws wide open. As I watched, I asked myself those questions, "What is it about her that all the guys like? Why do women have to act that way to get attention? Is she younger than me? Andy was quietly amused by her and I quietly wished this girl with the cute short shorts would disappear. Aren't these feeling supposed to go away when you are married? And aren't guys supposed to grow up? I wondered why I wore that little black dress that showed off my little pot belly. I wondered why I was the only woman on the train to feel this way.

Until the days following when my drunk friends sobered up and started recapping the night's events. Jealousy. Ain't it a bitch?

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