I want to tell stories, but I don’t feel like I have a lot to say. Nothing worth the bandwidth this post will take up, anyway.
I’m a little more flatly sad than I would like to be, a week out from another failed try. This past weekend was all jagged crying and sinking, stabbing hearts. Now I feel dry and not-quite-hopeless but also not hopeful. It feels like this is just the ways things are right now . . . the pattern of wait-hope-wait-cry is just the cycle my life follows. For now. I have had other lousy looped tracks consume my life, and always they have changed. So while I can’t really believe in things getting better – in the sense of seeing the hope crest on a horizon – I also know they will. That’s the particular human contradiction I’m feeling right now.
But we all know there’s nothing that can cure a bout of lifeless sadness like the artifice of plastic american culture! Tomorrow, I head off to Vegas for two days with my high roller buddy. This friend, who I can’t help but feel a modicum of jealousy towards, has won three or four big jackpots at the local casino in the last 6 months. These jackpots altogether likely eclipse my annual income. For this reason, I do not have my usual guilt hang-up about the fact that she is paying for pretty much everything on this trip. Bring on the false reality, the craps games, the frozen drinks. I am due for something totally unreal.
In other news . . .
I made an appointment for myself, La and BFF to visit the OB/GYN practice that our friends recommended. I’m hoping the fact that the receptionist didn’t bat a (verbal) eye when I told her our situation will mean it will be smooth sailing for our alternative conception realness. Because these kinds of things never actually align they way they should, the appointment is scheduled for the day we will (likely) know whether our impending try works or not. That feels both auspicious and also just really dumb. What’re you gonna do, y’know?
A week after this poorly timed appointment/possible date of good news, La and I will finally go on our ‘honeymoon’ – which I guess is somewhat appropriate since our relationship only recently gained any sort of legal legitimacy. I am hoping to get all of the pregnancy no-nos out of the way BEFORE the trip to cancun so that I can be forced to drink virgin daiquiris and have miserable morning sickness. Just kidding. Sort of. I actually wouldn’t complain at all, since my understanding of the first trimester is that it will kind of generally suck no matter where you are – so why not have it suck in paradise?
Gawd. I’m sorry I’m so grumpy. Maybe it also has something to do with being trapped in a basement . . .er . . .”garden level” office when it is the one week in Colorado where it is not scorchingly hot but also not snowing. And the chickens are finally outside being all cute and chickeny in their run, and I’d really just rather be outside with them. Cletus gets it.