Review: EnvyEnvy is a terrible thing. I know this because I’ve been going to hot yoga. After hot yoga, there are naked showers. And in the naked showers, there are women with beautifully landscaped pubic hair, like a small garden, and manicured toenails. We make polite conversation, us naked women, but you can tell people are distracted, secretly wondering, “Are her nipples better than mine?”
Envy is a speciality of egotists and narcissists – a single weak spot that highlights the vastness of the rest of the ego, like a sliver of moon. “Why do you have that thing,” says envy, in its nasty Rupert Everett voice, “when I want it and don't have it? Do you think you deserve it? Do you think you're better than me?” The envier’s view of the world is even more spectacularly irrigated with power and injustice than the paranoid’s. To the envious, there is a beauty pie, and an intelligence pie, and a success pie, and anyone doing particularly well for themselves is taking more than their fair share and should be punished, or at the very least become fat - morally, metaphysically fat.
Being a naturally envious person is like being naturally competitive, in the sense that it’s not a good idea to combine either character trait with laziness and incompetence. If I could be bothered to moisturise, diet, wax and pluck at the rate recommended by women’s magazines, I would be sleek and hairless as a seal all year round, and people would riot every time I took off my underwear. City centres would be laid waste. Government officials would visit and, shielding their eyes, would beg me to put my clothes back on. I would envy myself. I would implode, in a shower of beautiful limbs and bits of flesh.
Envy: Avoid it like the emotional Black Death it is. 1 out of 10