I’m doing a show in Mamaroneck tonight at Molly Spillane’s.
It’s my first show since my miscarriage. It’s $100 for 15 minutes. After travel fare to and from, it’s a bit less. I’m always grateful for stagetime, especially paid stagetime but I don’t feel particularly funny right now. After the open mic last night and the one the night before, I could scurry home and have a glass of wine or one of my husband’s dirty martinis. Not so, tonight. I will have to wait my turn and then wait to get paid and then wait for the train back to Manhattan. It’s not even 4:00pm right now and I’m dreaming of 11:00pm and a drink and a cuddle with my husband.
I’m tired. I’m profoundly tired. Like whole body, whole heart, tired. I often wish we had a dog and now I want one more than ever. I want our apartment renovations to start and complete. I want my uterus and, in turn, my stomach, to shrink back to size. I want my arms to be cut again. I want to be somewhat happy again. For me. For my husband. For the people around me. Today was easier than yesterday. Tomorrow will be easier than today. I’m bleeding less and cramping less. I now have three shows the week of 9/7, which is great.
This in-between time. No longer pregnant but knowing that we could be pregnant again in a matter of months. How do I want to make the most of this time? Self-care, comedy, finding more meaning in my days. Legitimately serving a purpose and not just watching the clock tick to the next moment to myself.
My birthday is in less than four weeks. My pregnancy was supposed to be 12 weeks along at that point. I can’t think that way. I can’t do that to myself.
Both my husband and I now have miscarriage material which we are testing at open mics. So people know now. Open mics are generally full of kids under the age of 30 who complain about how hard it is to date in New York. Perhaps not the best demographic for us but we have to start somewhere.