Jealousy is not necessarily an unproductive human downfall. My preschool nemesis became one of the primary motivating factors in my life: I wanted to have more doll accessories than she did, I wanted to learn to write my name in cursive like she did, and then, years later, I wanted to date her boyfriend, and I wanted our beloved high school English teacher to give me more attention around the Harkness Table.

This former rival became my early academic incentive, but it became tiresome to try to exceed her (especially since she was a star ice hockey player, and I have never been fond of team sports, or cold air). My jealousy turned into an unshakable desire to be different from her. In boarding school, this impulse led me down many a wayward path—jumping in ponds late at night with underclassman boys, writing poetry, dressing exclusively in orange velour jumpsuits, directing French experimentalist theatre productions, and occasionally wearing wigs.

But in the end, I would never take back this rivalry. We are now close friends, and I admire her for her early acceptance to Harvard Business School, her charming boyfriend, and her varsity women’s ice hockey scores. Because, just two hours south of Cambridge, in the delightfully underrated city of New Haven, I have many brilliant things of my own—an unedited (and probably unpublishable) manuscript, a gay boyfriend named “Poodle,” and an aversion to overly strenuous physical activity.

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