I can’t sleep.
After receiving the news that my pregnancy would officially end one way or another, my husband bought us dirty martini fixings, loads of soft (and heretofore forbidden) cheeses and cured meats. We chased it all with Talenti’s salted caramel gelato. He is the best. I hope I take care of him as well as he takes care of me. I found myself leaving him a note on our coffee table recently:
There simply aren’t enough blow jobs to express my gratitude.
He told his mom, a registered nurse, that I was around eight weeks pregnant and would have a miscarriage in the coming days. She apparently suspected I was pregnant during the family’s annual beach trip earlier this month, though I was legitimately on antibiotics for bronchitis and thus had a plausible excuse for not drinking, of which he reminded her. She apparently still thought I was pregnant.
Which means, in short, my mother-in-law thought:
“Katherine seems like the kind of girl who would drink on antibiotics.”
“Katherine wouldn’t let a little thing like a hacking cough stop her from tying one on.”
Is it obvious I’m trying to think of miscarriage jokes? Does any comic have miscarriage jokes or is that considered taboo? Am I mining unchartered territory?
There are things in my life that I put on hold once I became pregnant – my job search, my five-times-a-week gym practice, going to open mics as often as possible. I guess I can start doing all of those things again. I like my job but I don’t like some of the people at my job (or rather, their behavior. Is it ever possible to really know someone you work with while you work with them?) and it’s become clear that those people don’t like me, either. Is it enough to continue plodding along, finding friendly footholds where one can? What would I do?
Personality tests (I’m an INFJ) tell me I’m supposed to do something that helps others – a therapist or counselor of some kind. I would hope stand-up comedy would fall under that category but I’m years away from making a living doing it. I could be hustling harder. I could create a longer clean set and try to get corporate gigs. I could have done more with my one TV credit when it happened.
Mother Teresa, Gandhi, Plato and Jung were all INFJs. So were Hitler and Bin Laden.
I have to believe I’m meant to do more with my life than what I’m currently doing. I often find myself sitting at my cube thinking:
There has to be more to life than this.
And if I bring another life into this world – and I hope I do – I know how unhappiness or discontent can be passed on to children, how it can permeate a family. Like old smoke in a home’s walls long after its owner has quit.
I have a running short list of to-dos to complete before I have a kid, including learning how to drive again. Another is becoming more comfortable in my own skin. Another one seems apparent:
Figure some shit out. ASAP.