fiction or fact; or is fiction fact?

I was chatting with someone the other day who asked me, "you mean you don't have to be somewhere every morning?". 

I answered no, and she was both surprised and envious. 

The lyrics from an old James song came to mind "You can have/whatever you want/but are you disciplined enough to be free?"

This past week I have been wondering exactly that, noticing the distinct irony of someone else's jealousy that I am presently not involved in anything that is important to anyone but me. Which is in fact a very difficult undertaking, believe it or not. And not necessarily as blessed as it may seem.

But to be fair, stepping outside of myself, this does seem so great. People (frequently non-arts workers) have commented before to me on my exciting ubercool life, which I frequently seem quite inured to. And when I see other peoples' lives, I feel envy myself, without even stopping to realize I share much of the same advantages as they.

So which is the fiction, then? Peoples' thoughts on my life, or my own consternation over it?