I was in the nail salon getting a pedicure and manicure when she walked in. A tall, slim, bleached blonde, clad in a navy blue jogging suit plops on the couch waiting her turn to be pampered.

I don’t know why I struck up a conversation with her— perhaps because she said she had just returned from New York. "New York City?" I asked. "Yes. We were there for New Years Eve. We went to the Tavern on the Green in Central Park. The guys were all in tuxedoes and at midnight we all went outside to watch the fireworks," she tells me enthusiastically. "Were you in New York for business or pleasure?" I asked. "Strictly pleasure. Our daughter works for the CIA in D.C. and ever time we visit her, we go up to NYC for a few days," she says. "We were in NYC when we heard about the floods here in Sonoma County. And in ‘89 when the earthquake hit San Francisco, we were in Europe. It’s terrible to be away from home when disasters hit," she complains.

"Maybe not," I think to myself. "My husband is a criminal lawyer," she says. "Does he ever get death threats?" I asked "Oh, no. He only works for white-collar criminals." "Oh, you mean like the guys at Enron?" I ask. "Yes," she nods her head.

At this point I was well on my way down the familiar road of "jealousy and longing". I wanted her life instead of mine. I wanted her rich, criminal lawyer husband, her trips to NYC and Europe and her navy blue jogging suit. Meanwhile, she continues to lament about all the challenges in her life — about how her 150-pound dog roams around on their large estate and comes in with muddy feet. "When I had a Springer Spaniel, I kept a bucket of warm water by the back door so that every time he came in with muddy feet, I could dip each paw in the bucket." I shared. She looks at me puzzled, as much as to say, "I’m not looking for a remedy, just someone to listen to me."

The same "jealousy and longing" hit me a few weeks ago when I went to a friend’s 50th birthday party. Her house is in ORDER. All her books are alphabetically displayed (by author) in their dining room. Shoes, slacks & blouses, are color coordinated in her closet. Her husband is in order too. He has just the right color hair – salt and pepper gray; the right build — about 6 ft, no beer belly; and for sure, the right energy — mellow. Her house was full of people and the food was catered by Pearson & Co. (the best caterer in town). A delightful lady walked around serving fancy hors d’oeuvres. Her gardens were groomed, the hot tub was hot, and many of the exquisite photographs framed on the wall were hers.

I managed to put my "jealousy and longing" away for awhile — long enough to connect with a few people. Before I left the party, I took time to take a photo capturing my friend and her husband. On my way to my car, I stopped on the corner, turned around and beheld the beautiful scene. It was like a painting by Thomas Kinkade. There was a glow emanating from the windows. I could see the people inside and all the books in order on the shelves in the dining room.

The tears began to well up in my eyes and by the time I got to the car, I was sobbing. I let myself cry with longing for that perfect life. I didn’t condemn myself. My tears were not right or wrong. They just were what they were.

The sobbing didn’t last long, once I had given myself permission to allow the feelings. The voice of my wise, nurturing mother soon kicked in. "Honey, don't compare yourself with your friends. All those things that you covet wouldn’t make you any happier than you are. You just think they would." I welcomed that nurturing voice. It has not always been with me. I felt better and within minutes, I was singing along with a tune on the car radio as I drove home to my small apartment where the books are in piles, the clothes scattered in my bedroom, and the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes. I was too tired to do dishes before the party. I continued to sing to myself as I cleaned up the kitchen, taking a break to run upstairs and draw a hot bath.

With 30 minutes, I was soaking in my bathtub with candles and the scent of lavender rising from the water. I was at peace with the myself again.

Equanimity used to evade me. Often now, it’s just a conversation away. My Inner Nurturing Mother is doing a great job of taking care of me.

Pauline Laurent, Certified Professional Co-Active Life Coach, www.gutsycoaching.com, 707-578-4226