I'm not usually one for sympathising with the thwarted ambitions of men. 'Jobs for the boys' is a story in which this girl is normally left fuming on the sidelines.
But my sad familiarity with the incandescent rage of losing out on a job means that, unlike others, I fully understood the frustrations of Dara Calleary, Willie O'Dea and Michael Moynihan this week.
A sense of entitlement doesn't win hearts and minds but many of us have been there. When you believe you'd be brilliant at the job you've always wanted, it's perfectly normal to be angry. In fact, I'm not sure I'd like someone who accepted disappointment passively, despite the popularity of mindfulness these days.
I prefer the kind of people who are in touch with their feelings, especially their negative ones. There's something more authentic about raw fury than resignation.
What adds salt to the wound, though, is the point Michael Moynihan made about loyalty. He said he had "taken a lot of s**t" for Micheál Martin over the years.
Loyalty is an article of faith for me and I, like poor Deputy Moynihan, have seen it go unrewarded. When that happens, it's not about the job any more but an existential-level identity crisis. You thought you were noble and all the time were being taken for granted.
Ooooh, I know all about these slings and arrows of injustice which rapidly descend into tortuous self-loathing. If any of the afflicted deputies want to break social distancing rules and unload their troubles on my tiny shoulders, they'll find no more willing listener than me.
Of course, one is supposed to maintain a dignified demeanour and Calleary quickly made the right noises about dusting himself down and getting on with the job. It's part of the modern etiquette that a professional person refrains from displaying feelings publicly (unless they're a founder- genius of a high-tech company where insane tantrums are part of the acceptable personality-type).
But as my psychoanalyst friend says: "Better out than in." So on this matter too, I forgive the enraged deputies.
The trick is not to become a bore on the subject. One weekend of complaining is allowed and then it's time to start planning revenge, which is much more fun.
Jim O'Callaghan's chilling refusal of a job offer was, in political terms, a declaration of war on Michéal Martin. The conspiratorial types will be kept busy.
My empathy only extends to the personal though. I have much less time for the narrative that constituencies rather than people had been variously neglected or insulted. Feelings in Mayo seemed to run particularly high, with one aggrieved native invoking the Cromwellian slur.
That seemed a bit over the top, but then I'm from Meath, where we've never quite forgiven Mayo for banging on too long about losing that All-Ireland.
Meanwhile, O'Dea and Moynihan doubled down on the geographic affront. Both claimed the absence of a job offer was not merely a personal slight but an insult to their local communities, representatives of which were in total agreement with them.
Maps of Ireland highlighting the absence of ministers in certain locations quickly popped up on social media.
The thrust of these complaints was that the counties in question would be neglected by Government when it came to allocating anything from roads to factories.
That implies ministers could and should interfere in these decisions. This expectation is so explicitly held that our friends in Mayo complained bitterly that Enda Kenny had failed to look after the county properly when he was Taoiseach.
Two weeks ago, columnists David Davin-Power and Lise Hand, when asked by Brendan O'Connor on RTÉ Radio 1 to rate former Taoisigh, agreed Kenny was the best Taoiseach the country ever had. But this cuts no ice with his former constituents who think he did nothing for them.
What the episode demonstrates is the polarisation of the conversation about the purpose of politicians. Commentators are very fond of complaining politicians spend too much time indulging the parish pump; while those back in the parish expect nothing less.
I've mixed feelings. I've often been asked to run for the Dáil and always said no because I couldn't face the winter nights at angry residents' meetings when I'd rather be creating and implementing lofty policies, and going home to my children.
On the other hand, I recognise the intimate relationship between TDs and constituents means they don't lose touch with people's real-life problems. It does politicians a lot of good to get out of corridors of power and into people's communities. I've also benefited from a wizard constituency secretary helping me navigate the social welfare system at a time of crisis.
However, even if you value these aspects of politics, this is quite different from the expectation that a road should be built between towns A and B because the cabinet minister is one of your own. Economic and infrastructural decisions should be made on their merits, not political pull. Anything else is corruption.
Going back to the unhappy TDs, I often think of the mathematical statement that happiness is equal to expectation minus reality. I hate this equation as it implies that lowering one's expectations is the secret to happiness. It might be true, but where does that leave hope?
Resilience is the real trick here. Take defeat on the chin, but never give up.