“It’s alright.  I’m just practicing being considerate.”

That’s a text message I sent to a friend the other day, and it’s true.  I have to make a conscious effort to be considerate; it doesn’t come natural.  It caused me to think of what kind of friend I am, to this person and to everyone.  Do I contribute, do I enrich, or do I take away?

I genuinely believe I enrich the lives of my friends.  I am done with taking from others.  I think I have been for quite some time.  I just want to give, to enrich the lives of others.  A lot of the impetus of this is practical: I have just about everything I want, and I don’t need what I don’t have.  Like I was telling a friend of mine on the phone today, I don’t have a lot of fuckaround money these days, but my bills are always paid, and I am always fed, and I am happy.  I can’t afford to get my wife the biggest Christmas gift in the world, but we’re not poor by any means, and I’m still insured and saving for retirement, and not having to bum rides off of more affluent friends all the time.  So, yeah, life is pretty good.

I have had friends and acquaintances that haven’t enriched my lives; that have, in fact, stolen life from me.  It helps me to realize the person I don’t want to be.  I am always eager to help anyone who asks, and I am open to using my resources to benefit others, though I rarely ask the same of my peers.

I only want to give, to contribute, to be the best version of myself for each and every person.  In this end, I have many good friends, and I am generally well-liked.  The few people who don’t like me (or don’t care) I consider to be jealous.  I had to really convince myself of this, because as soon as my brain offered “Oh they’re just jealous!” as an answer, I saw every hoochied-out teen-mom Paris Hilton-clone waving their finger shouting “Oh, you just jealous!” to the detractors of their lifestyle.  It’s the answer of insecure; the over-inflated bravado of the fearful.  But in my case, I believe it to be true.  The few people I can think of who don’t smile when I enter a room or genuinely enjoy time spent with me are more often than not jealous.  One fellow in particular, who is a writer, doesn’t like me because I also write.  He probably thinks he’s better at it than me (and he probably is) but just because I also write, he is intimated by me.  Also, I think he wants my wife.  That happens a lot.

I don’t begrudge people their jealousies, particularly when it’s because they see something in my life that they wish they had.  I sometimes wish everyone could have the life that I have, but at the same time I’m incredibly happy it’s mine and I’m not about to lease it out to anyone else.

To this end, I try to only give to my friends; only make them laugh, make them smile, give them love.  Sometimes it means I have to make a concerted effort to be considerate, to think of people who aren’t standing directly in front of me, and I’m working on that.  It’s something I’ve struggled with in the past, and in the coming years I hope to improve in this aspect.

I don’t really have much else to say.  This was just running through my mind the other day.  I wonder how accurate my impression of myself and others may be in this diatribe, but I’m sure if I’m wrong, it will make itself apparent soon.