Satisfaction

Husband had a job fair today in Houston.

Carolyn and I went along for the ride - mostly because we (meaning I) really love to go places when we don't have to drive.

While Husband began to peruse the rows upon rows of vendors (including the CIA, Peace Corps, and The Lutheran Financial Ministries), I found a place to give Carolyn her breakfast.

I was sitting two chairs down from three beautiful, young, well-dressed women.

They were soon approached by representatives for Abercrombie and Fitch, who were looking for new executives to fill buyer positions.

I immediately laughed at myself when I thought, "Well, I wonder why they didn't approach me instead!"

I looked down and took stock.

There I was in my ten-year-old sweatshirt, my droopy bottom pregnancy jeans (the only jeans I have that fit), my unbrushed, ponytailed hair, my unmade-up face, with my oatmeal-faced-and-handed baby.

It's usually at this point that I'd feel sorry for myself. 

Wish I was someone else. 

Beat myself up for not looking a certain way.

But this time, it was exactly the opposite.

I didn't feel sorry for myself.

Like even a little bit.

I felt sorry for those girls.

Why?

Because they're not me.

I felt bad that there's no way their lives can be as good as mine.

At the present time, mine just can't get any better.

I have a husband who loves and supports me even in my frumpyness.  He's happier now than I've ever seen him.

I have the cutest baby in the world, who I love to watch take in the everything around her (even if it means her puking in my purse.  Every day).

I have a job I love, which allows me the flexibility to make a sufficient amount of money while also spending twice as much time at home.

I have good friends.

No, sir, it can't get any better.

Eat your hearts out, girls.