It is only 12:30 in the afternoon and already the cosmos has taken ample opportunity to tell me what a big, fat failure it thinks I am. First, there is the matter of having absolutely no response to the fifteen or so resumes/cover letters/applications I have sent out in the last 3 weeks. No calls for interviews, no emails telling me they are looking through all the submitted resumes and will let me know, not even a letter saying I didn't fit their paradigm but they will keep my resume on file. Nothing. Which is utterly and completely deflating. Especially when it is a part-time data entry job, which I could do in my sleep.
Also, despite being more dedicated to the work out plan than I have been in ages, the scale had decided to mock me by showing a weight gain rather than a loss. The dial refuses to turn in the right direction! I have decided to blame the whole thing on moving closer to sea level. I'm sure being high in the Salt Lake Valley makes one's scale read lower. It couldn't be the fact that I now live in a place where someone routinely offers to make me food, where everyone enjoys three square meals, and where the pantry is always stocked with delectable things like chocolate chips and gourmet breads.
Then there was the Deseret Book catalog that arrived in the mail today. It is the Mother's Day edition and was full of things that made me throw up in my mouth a little like this:
Aside from the nauseating, they were spotlighting a book called I Am a Mother by someone named Jane Clayson Johnson who was apparently a correspondent for ABC's Good Morning America and The CBS Evening News, as well as being a co-anchor for CBS's The Early Show. The book is about giving it all up to be a mother and the foreward is written by Sheri Dew, another powerhouse woman. This book, along with many, many others in the catalog, only highlight the fact that not only can I not manage to get a date, let alone get married and procreate, I can't even hold down a job, forget about building a career.
All of which is tempting me to send a No, thank you RSVP to the organizers of my high school reunion. How can I convince everyone of my own inner fabulousness if I can't convince myself of its existence? Or maybe I'll just go listen to the Bridget Jones's Diary soundtrack Esperanza had the prophetic brilliance to send me last week. If It's Raining Men can't get me out of this funk, I don't know what can!