Envy

There is a man in Beijing who lives in an egg.

Dai Haifei grew tired of the soaring rents and used his architectural background and (let's be honest) incredible ingenuity to construct a home out of little more than bamboo and grass seed. A solar panel built into the roof powers a small lamp that stands next to his single bed.


I can't stop thinking about his decision to lead a simpler life. 


Often (especially during the holiday season when stores and homes and catalogs are decked out in their opulent finest) I find myself swept away in fantasy and my home-already beautiful-begins to look shabby. I focus on small things like how my throw pillows seem dated and am in turmoil over how I should really have winter drapes. Pottery Barn succeeds in convincing me that my earrings should be kept in a sterling silver monogrammed jewelry box (on a Mahogany dresser) and that my coffee table should be of reclaimed wood and decorated with only a birch candle (and, perhaps, a glass globe filled with sweet green moss and simple white twinkle lights).


In the meantime, many many miles away, there is a man who locks his bike up at night next to his egg. He must experience a Zen similar to the one I tend to find while camping. There, I relax and life is far more easy. We can sweep the tent out and don jeans and sneakers. Dinner over a campfire is delicious and hikes leave my body feeling wonderfully achy. 


I am often embarrassed at my penchant for the fancy. I love fine hotels, spas and meals. I love good clothes and nights out in the city. Sadly though, too much of these indulgences seem to have a dark effect on my confidence. Perhaps I am weak, but I will admit that I begin to compare my lifestyle to everyone else. Who is wearing nicer shoes? Who has the best table in the restaurant? It's like a high school she-is-prettier-than-me jealousy all over again and I lose myself in a tornado whirl of internal chatter. 


Because, surely, the woman with the nicer shoes must be happier. The man and woman staying in the hotel penthouse suite must have a better marriage. The couple with children in matching cable knits and wide wale cords must know the secret to parenting.


Every once in a while, and most often during the holiday season, this skewed thinking haunts my happily-married-mother-of-two thoughts.


And then I become inspired by people who say, simply, fuck it. 
I found a loophole. 
I'm gonna live in an egg.


You don't need winter drapes there, and, anyway Pottery Barn catalogs don't ship to aviary addresses.