Suckerpunched! (revised)

This week started on a downer... such a downer it took me until today to write about it. I didn't get the job. That job I've been giddy about. The prospect of which had me skipping down the street like a cracked out schoolgirl. The prized and fabled job interviewing inmates at the Seattle Jail... it just wasn't meant to be. Apparently NorthWest Defenders decided to hire someone with relevant experience. Hmph.

The crappy part is that I didn't find out until I had become REALLY REALLY invested in the idea. I had practically written my letter of resignation. I was prepared to move downtown so that I could continue to live right next door to wherever I work. I was mentally prepared to deal with clients that actually needed my help. They even checked my references for gosh sake. Sigh. Now I've got a boss that knows I was trying to find another job, but has to continue putting up with me since the legal firm eventually rejected my sorry ass.

So last night, I dragged that lazy, tired butt to the gym. As I reached the five-minute mark on the treadmill (jogging at a pace almost as fast as a typical urban walk) I started thinking about why it is that I don't have one of these perfectly chiseled bodies that I see all around me. I see them all the time: on the streets, in the magazines, in the movies and on television. It's almost like a part of my brain thinks I'm entitled to that perfectly slim physique, and that it's unfair that I don't have one too. That's when I realized the root of my job-related depression. Not getting the job offended my sense of entitlement. I deserved that job! That's why I was so bummed out. My sense of "investment" had transformed into a sense of "entitlement".

Keenly aware of my gloriously cascading rolls of belly fat, I kept jogging past the ten-minute mark and thought about how despicable I find people who walk around with offended senses of entitlement. These are the inflexible people, the unadaptable people. Their lives don't measure up to whatever yardstick they've been programmed with, and somehow it's everyone else's fault. Or worse yet, it's their own fault, and it's irrefutable proof that they can't do anything right and ought to just kill themselves. I'm not any more entitled to that job than I am to that perfectly toned body over there. And taking occasional stabs at achieving either goal probably isn't going to be effective.

I felt more and more like a weak-kneed punk for being so upset about missing their final cut. It's all about self-discipline and resilience right? Those are the real tools you need to thrive and survive. I was starting to get woozy as I hit the fifteen-minute wall. Then my Creative Muvo (so much better than an iPod!) pumped Matisyahu's King without a Crown (from the new album Youth) into my ears. Not just the perfect rush of beat and manic happy energy, but a remarkable testament to humility. I thought about the necessity of plugging away, of changing strategies and of finding happiness wherever the universe decides to put you despite your best efforts. I cruised past my twenty minute goal easily.

I'm still not cured. Now I'm tired and numb. But I'm taking that as progress since I was miserable over the last two days.