I thought about writing a post, maybe a story from our birdwatching trip, something...but what? And why? I've hit a patch of unfamiliar ennui, of losing touch with ambition, energy, interest. This is uncharted territory for me, and I don't like it.
I think that unemployment is starting to disagree with me, like dairy products--delicious at first, then really fucking uncomfortable.
Maybe this is the signal that I ought to get off my (bulbous) arse and find a new job. And maybe I'd better do it soon.
There isn't a tremendous amount of external motivation for me to go back to work. We are in good financial shape, having been moderately frugal with my generous severance and bonus package, and I could easily stay home for another six or eight months without worrying about the mortgage. But I don't think I can take it, waiting till I'm motivated by fiscal necessity. I think mental necessity will mandate quick action, if the ennui is not to take up permanent residence.
You see, my unverbalized plan, back when I first was preparing for the closure of my company, was that I'd take a few months off and go back to work once I was pregnant, if it hadn't happened before the job ended. I figured that trying to conceive would be easier if I wasn't working. And I figured I'd be pregnant, you know, soon. I knew that the stress of my job was taking a toll on me--not, I repeat NOT to insinuate that it was causing the infertility; I was NOT thinking that relaxation would be my golden ticket--but I did think that I could focus on getting better treatment, better advice, even timing our sex better, when I had more time. And maybe I thought that spending even more time focusing on pregnancy, more time obsessing, would somehow be rewarded. Funny, yeah? But in having the time to obsess evern more, dream even more, I also have more time to feel the disappointment and futility.
Till July, I had never before been without a job. I worked after school every day starting in kindergarten--seriously, I coded response envelopes for my parents' newsletter as soon as I could safely clutch a pen with my nubby little fingers, for which I was paid in ten-cent cans of Diet Shasta Soda--and worked steadily through high school, college and my adulthood. From retail and copy writing to programming and operations and telecommunications and I.T. management, I changed directions a dozen times, but always in midair, never sitting back and reflecting, taking a month or two or six to figure out what was next.
So there had always been an alternate life for me--career, outside responsibilities, outside associates--to complement my life at home with J. And while I can't say I miss much of that other life, there are moments when I feel the urgent need for their distraction, as well as a need for the satisfaction I felt in being fairly successful. I guess that being unsuccessful in getting pregnant is starting to feel like its own dead-end career.