There is a problem with women, maybe not a problem as much as a tumorous auto-infliction of their own self-styled paranoia, but then I am being euphemistic. To sum it up, women are jealous, or more succinctly, they allow themselves to be engulfed by the flames of the evil green-eyed monster, and I am not talking Absinthe.
It is a quality in small amounts, but in quantities that women harbour it, like weed at Bob Marley’s, it is sheer delirium; the jealousy, not the weed. It manifests in every nook and corner of their existence, taking over the conscious and the critical. Women envy with a vehemence that men normally reserve for rugby matches or group orgies, contact sports basically. Women will buy not because it is therapeutic or because they need something; they flash the card as often as required just so to rub it in the face of their ‘friends’, who are only smiling on the outside during such instances. This sort of consumerism spurted by rivalry will discount even the iota of wisdom that a woman may possess outside of her shopping avatar. Why else do you think there are so many over sized women prancing about in animal print (spots or stripes, who cares) looking like Garfield, minus the cute bit? They buy it because someone they know did. Kate Moss perhaps started this, and, like Chinese whispers, as this trend spread far and wide, the women kept getting further wider. Men get jealous too, or sure we too have it — which man hasn’t seen a dude get into a sports car and wanted to be in his seat — but we are gifted with a me or that is smaller than anything you can fit in the backseat of said sports car, and by the time the dude has hit second gear, we have already forgotten about it.
We covet momentarily and then move on. I guess what women need to do is to channel this jealousy the right way: maybe at the gym, or when buying gifts for their man — stuff like that.
(The writer is a sommelier and is the author of Wine Wisdom)