Ahem

The last year has been tapioca pudding. Bland substance filled with little bubbles to make it interesting enough to keep eating.

I was pregnant and quickly unpregnant back in September. True to life, I miscarried through a week-long project management course in Victoria. It had its comic moments to be sure, as I was staying at an absent acquaintance's place and my biggest fear was bleeding all over her bed. I slept on a small tarp, in jeans stuffed full of towels and maxi-pads. There were equal parts of regret and relief. Too soon, too soon is my first response every time my period is late--but perhaps there is never the *perfect* time. And perhaps at 39.8 years old, the perfect time is any time I can actually merge an egg and sperm in my crabby old uterus (or wherever life takes place).

Soon to be 40! Calloo, callay. I don't plan anything past a BBQ, maybe a bike ride or hike with some pals. A boob job, having the fat from my ass injected into my lips. The usual.

Work has been sporadic but now looks promising. The downside to having long-term contracts is that they (of course) do end eventually. I was confident to the point of cocky last spring, as it had been a good couple of years and I assumed the good times would keep rolling. I suppose learning a modicum of humility has been A Good Thing. I've thrown myself at various initiatives in the last several months, hoping something would stick, a connection would be made, etc.

Being a consultant/contractor/temp is a leap of faith...that keeps getting longer and longer. Wil E. Coyote, running in place off a cliff until he looks down. Maybe he could get to the other side if he just didn't look down. Who knows? The lack of consistent work/$$ has been the most stressful thing the last year. Inevitably, I've embraced the idea of going back to school to get a designation as a Something. Inevitably, I've toyed with relocation and entertained the idea of doing something completely different and tried my subtle hardest to drum up more work from existing clients. As the pseuddhists say, the Universe has not provided what I am asking. So I ask for different.

The Man has been very patient, but is more disposed to talk about it than I am. I am by turns withdrawn and dismissive on the subject. My rationale being what's the point of talking about it beyond the odd rant or moan? I've been in dry spells before, though never this long. By a certain age, one would hope to be past these droughts. Ah well. Being withdrawn has also meant I have not written a word for fun in almost a year. It's like I've thought about it as a reward which can only be granted once I've achieved the goal of busyness or sustained fecundity. I've realized now that the strange iron grip I've had on myself the last several months has mostly just left me tired and dispirited. Asking for help has been the first step. I've even done some yoga. Ain't I humbled enough yet, O Universe?

GR