The Fine Print

I have to admit to falling in love with people that I have never met. Well, not all of the people that I haven't met cos, well, that would plain silly. But a few of them.

I actually like to think that it is a sign of my maturity and sophistication that I am no longer drawn to men solely on the basis of cuteness. (Or a nice smile. Or nice arms. Or...)

In recent years I have found myself attracted to men based on their wit and repartee. Not in person or in conversations, but through their writing.

I first realised this when I came across a porn magazine while visiting a health retreat a few years back. The room's previous resident must have stashed it in a cupboard under blankets - presumably to hide it from the prying eyes of the cleaners - and forgotten it was there. Or something. Nevertheless, they forgot to take it with them and was left for my viewing pleasure.

While I have nothing against a sensible level of porn (the non-violent, not-involving-animals-or-other-weird-things-kind) I hadn't seen a magazine since discovering a stash at a relative's place 20 years before! It wasn't a well-known one and wasn't at all offensive. In fact, it was hilarious! Very tongue-in-cheek, rude but very witty. Mostly I ignored the pictures as the magazine gave a whole new meaning to 'buying it for the articles'.

The entire thing was obviously written by the one person. I suspect that, given the focus on the actual pictures, the article and caption-writing weren't overly arduous, so one person probably could have put it together in a month. But, there were enough words for me to completely become smitten with the author. I recall, at the time, pouring through the editorial info wondering who this author was. There was even a tone of irreverance for the target audience. I (very briefly) thought about writing to them to confess my undying love, but decided that would be, well... weird.

A year or two later (and magazine left for next health retreat resident) I discovered the next object of my desire. Reading a free inner-city weekly magazine I came across a weekly column spoofing political events (state and national). It was hilarious. The writer sarcastic and witty. Again, very tongue-in-cheek and obviously intelligently written. With no name on the column I scoured the editorial pages and the fine print wondering who authored it. I didn't go so far as to contact the paper to find out, but I did secretly hope the author was actually male. The fantasy wasn't as attractive otherwise. Each week I grabbed the paper, wanting my next fix until - suddenly there was a note to say the column was finishing. I thought of contacting the paper then to ask why, but again.... weird!

My latest fetish is for a cartoon called Vimrod (see link in my Favourites list). I know the authors are actually a couple, but my enamourment of the cartoon and the wit of its authors reminded me of my evolving taste when it comes to men.

I haven't 'fallen' for anyone for yonks. Once upon a time, all it took was a cute face, nice smile and nice set of biceps. From my discussions with friends, it seems common that - as we get older - we look for something different. My own 'wish list' has changed drastically over the past 20 years.

Intelligence, wit and sense of humour are at the top of that list (as well as a devotion to me, obviously!). I wondered once if it was just that (as we aged and the men-market dried up) we were becoming more desperate and were prepared to 'settle' for the less-attractive, but nicer guys. But it seems obvious that as marriages falter, the sizzle fades, the friendships become more important.

Last year I had the exact conversation with one of my best friends. As we bemoaned the state of our lovelives, I said that the most important thing for me now, in looking for a man, was that we had to have that 'banter'. I needed someone smart, witty and quick-minded, rather than just pretty to look at, or even just 'nice'. My friend said that she had accepted the fact that she wouldn't get that 'stimulation' from a man. It didn't matter if he wasn't her intellectual equal or able to 'chew the fat' on certain matters. She said that she could rely on her friends for that and no longer expected that in a potential partner.

The same friend has diligently dated over the enusing 12 months. Three months ago she had her first date with a guy she met over the internet. I met her the next day for a debrief. She liked him. Her only concern was that he was too much like her. He was her intellectual equal. She wasn't sure if that was what she wanted.

But, she perservered and they are still together. She sounds happy. I am yet to meet him, but am looking forward to it. My friend has always been a 'saver' and I love the fact that this time around, someone is there to meet her half-way. It is no more than she deserves.

So, what of this new revised wish list and my love of the witty writers.....? I have hung up my saddle on the relationship front for the time being. Not given up entirely, but am tired of 'looking'. Tired of not-finding and feeling rejected and alone.

In the interim, my love of the written word will continue and I will remain smitten about these men I come across, but don't come across (if you know what I mean).

And on the 13th day....

I got the call this morning and all I can think is, eek! What it means though, is that the next stage of the journey has started. The foreplay is over and we are at the ‘pointy end of the season’.

Last time I wrote about the ‘the journey’ it was with a sense of hopelessness.

When I first starting considering going down the donor insemination route, I wasn’t exactly sure when I would start. “When things were right,” I thought, which essentially translated to when I had lost weight. Other than a sense of nerves, my weight was the only thing holding me back. You constantly hear how being too overweight can diminish your chances of falling pregnant, so my original plan was to wait a few months and try and lose weight before doing anything.

Then I started the appointments. I was dieting and losing weight at the time and highly motivated to do so.

I was also highly motivated in the baby-stakes. More than I imagined. Apathy has dogged me over recent years and it takes a lot of ‘steps’ for me to do what I need to. So, my fast-tracking of this process has surprised even me. I went very quickly from ‘sending off an innocuous query email’ to appointments, to procuring donor sperm. Despite this, in late February I was still, however, shocked to hear that doctors expected I would progress this in coming months. In my mind, June or later was ideal. I had excuses other than the weight: I didn’t want to have a December baby (who would suffer as I did from lack-of-presents or joint-presents around Christmas and be younger than school friends); and I didn’t want to be heavily pregnant in summer. The reasons were (vaguely) logical. To me, anyway.

But then something happened. I don’t know what, but I decided (a la Nike) I would ‘just do it’. I was ready and raring to go. It was March. Then the roadblocks started – not just sending me on a brief detour, but briefly into a downward spiral I found hard to escape. I had to wait a month to settle my blood pressure down. This was exacerbated by the fact that obstetrician was having holidays in April. I despaired over another month’s delay. May seemed forever away and I worried about (probability) statistics dropping as the months ticked by.

Strangely, March passed. When I revisited my GP at the end of that month, the medication had worked and my BP was almost normal. I was free to continue the journey.

The next steps of were the important ones. Actually ‘trying to get pregnant’ meant taking a fertility drug called chlomid in the first few days of my cycle. Then, on day 12, I have a blood test to see if my hormones are where they should be (heightened I gather). If they are, then I am ready for the insemination.

Having said that, I don’t entirely know what the actual insemination entails, other than assuming it to be some cold and clinical process. What I do know is that the ampoule which I purchased, is with the obstetrician and ready for inseminating.

But, having been given the green light, instead of being excited I was torn. I had faltered badly during the month. March had seen me throw away my diet and put on the weight I had lost. The hard work had been lost. How could I go ahead now? I had to re-lose the weight! How could I say that I was determined to have a child when I couldn’t even ‘stay the path’ on my diet? Perhaps it was for the best that my obstetrician was away in April after all. It would give me time to get back on track.

April arrives, as does my period. Earlier than usual. I think this is more of a problem in terms of my obstetrician’s holidays. I tell myself it is karma or kismet or some other k word that means it is meant to be. But, I call the clinic anyway, just to check.

I am more-than-shocked when the nurse tells me that I can go ahead. I have to start taking the drug the next day (days 2 – 6 of cycle) and then have a blood test on day 12. Incidentally, day 12 is Good Friday. That would mean insemination over the Easter weekend. It seems that the clinic’s blood testing facility is open (briefly) each day over Easter. It seems that my doctor will be back from leave and is on call over Easter. It seems that it will be April after all.

Instead of relief, I am hamstrung. ‘But, I haven’t lost weight yet,’ I think. There are so many problems with April. I am cat-sitting for two weeks and pregnant women aren’t supposed to be around cats, and I can’t back out as I have promised my niece.

Then I realise. It is unlikely to ‘happen’ this month. I remind myself that I can’t allow myself to believe that I will be pregnant this month. It may not happen for many months. Or ever. It may also happen, but not last. So I start to plan for treats, for things to cheer me up when I am not pregnant. ‘Perhaps a two-week stay at a weight loss retreat would console me – and be of benefit,’ I think (before remembering that I will need to spend that money on more ampoules).

So I go ahead. I take the chlomid. I break the first one and worry I haven’t consumed every morsel. I have diarrhoea after the second one and worry I haven’t absorbed it. I wonder when I need to completely stop drinking alcohol and caffeine.

Today is Good Friday. It is day 12. I started cat-sitting today. I had my blood test at 7.30am.

At 10.30am I had a call from my obstetrician. It is all systems go. My hormones are where they should be. Despite the crumbling tablet and the upset stomach. I forgot to mention the cats, but will tell her that tomorrow. Pre-coital banter. (Or something.)

It feels strange. I think eek. It feels big. I wonder how women cope with this for months. The expectation; the trying; the waiting; and the disappointment. For me it has only just begun.

Yes, I Can Can Can

I signed on before I really knew what I was getting into. So, it could have been disastrous. In fact, it has actually been quite fun.

At an end-of-year gathering late last year, one of my friends told me about some classes she had been attending. Always one to ferret out the unusual and obscure but very-interesting, KK had just finished a Hula Hoop course. Her enthusiasm for the 10-week program was effusive.

I had been thinking about signing up for something to do during the week. Another of my new year’s resolutions (like this blog) was to do more fun things during the week – so the week is less about work and… well, work.

So, a very-informal dance class seemed the perfect option and I asked KK for the dance school details. The options were overwhelming: as well as hula hooping, the school offered several versions of Hip Hop and Funk; Bellydancing; Bollywood; Tahitian and Polynesian Hula; Tribal Bellydance Fusion; and Burlesque.

As someone who doesn’t much like their body, I decided I should do something to help me feel more sensual and 'in tune' with my body. I recalled doing a one-off belly dancing class years before and the buxom instructor did make us all feel like sexually attractive and desirable women (I must admit,though, that this was at a health retreat and we were alcohol, sugar, caffeine deprived!).

I did however, want something a bit more energetic than bellydancing and when I described to KK what I wanted “something kinda like lap dancing, but without the laps,” she suggested that burlesque was the way to go.

The school’s website described burlesque as “Kylie's Showgirl tour fused with some Moulin Rouge sassy!”

My mind started to boggle as I imagined it: fishnets and garters, can-canning across the stage, or perhaps Nicole Kidman Moulin Rouge style – a sequined me on a swing – floating above the masses. Or perhaps it would more akin to PCD (or, for those not in the know – or, you know, over 20 – the Pussy Cat Dolls) and we would be gyrating in leather!

Despite all of this, I sent off my money and enrolled in the 10-week course before sanity or apathy could prevail.

I arrived late and stressed to the first lesson, having left work late and gotten lost en-route, only to be confronted by a swarm of 20yr-old skinny, bizarrely dressed women.

I was clad for exercise – leggings and big Nike t-shirt (and with sturdy sports bra for the high impact exercise ahead) so I stood out amongst the leopard print skimpy tops, tule skirts and ‘shorts-over-ripped-stockings’ look. I was also only one or two present unaddorned with tattoos. I almost felt bare. I was already regretting my decision. Amidst this group of sex-kittens (a-la Dita Von Teese), I felt positively frumpy and middle-aged. Of the 15 others, there was another woman older and frumpier (though normal-sized) than myself. Needless to say, we were a strange group and I often wondered what others visiting the dance studio, thought of us when they saw us en-masse.

Our instructor, Violet (a burlesque dancer herself and I suspect, not her real name…) had a seam tattoed down the back of her legs and a large wide tatto just under her neck, across her shoulder bones. She also had a long black ponytail falling from high on her head, perfect for flicking about when the need dictated.

Violet started the first lesson with the good news – that we would be learning a routine to (…wait for it), perform at the end of term concert. (Be still my beating heart, I thought and decided that I will be ‘sick’ or indisposed in some way.)

Nevertheless, we eventually kick off. The first lesson set the scene for those following. We began and finished with lengthy stretching sessions – though less for preventing injury and more for, well I am actually not sure, but increasing flexibility I guess. Many of the stretches were the kind that went out of fashion in the 80s, or maybe even the 70s – lots of helicopter arms swivelling to touch our toes. We were also required to do the splits – or as close to them as possible. I should have been sensible like the older woman, who did her own alternative stretches rather than Violet's as I often found myself aching in the days following our class, from overstretching as much as anything. (It may, however, interest my myriad of dedicated followers – ahem, I mean, readers – to know that I can actually do the splits frontways but not sideways… just for future reference!)

We did however, manage to fit in about 15-20mins of our routine each week. At this point I should point out that Violet was, and is, actually more of a performer than a teacher. We students and burlesque-novices regularly found ourselves looking at each other in confusion over which foot to start steps on, as the guileless Violet changed her mind each time.

Nonetheless, she was brimming with enthusiasm and poise (if not coordination) as she put us through our ‘burlesque paces’.

The movements of burlesque are fairly simple. Lots of hip flicks and circles, shimmies and body roles, with a few supposedly-sexy walks thrown in. (On that note and for future reference – again - unlike one’s normal walk, a ‘stripper’ or ‘burlesque’ walk involves planting the toe first and crossing the legs as you walk.)

In no way however, was my sports bra tested throughout the course. Our energy was focussed on swivells and shakes, not jumping around energetically. Even our can-can involved low, slow kicks.

Any self-consciousness I felt disappeared as we disparate souls giggled and strutted our way through the routine we learnt over the ten-week course.

Only 7 or 8 regulars attended most of the lessons and I would often find myself looking around, wondering what each was expecting to get out of the class. Not there for exercise I suspect, but more for something different, and perhaps because (I read that) burlesque is becoming the activity or exercise du jour!

Term 1 has now finished and we ‘graduates’ can now move to level 2. I think I might give it a miss though and try something different.

I don’t think I have come away from the course feeling more sensual, but I certainly have the moves if ever the opportunity arrives.

Happily ever after.....

It wasn’t a binding contract. But it was close. More than an assumption. A promise perhaps? And now that the promise is unfulfilled, is there anyone to sue? Anyone to blame? Myself perhaps in some ways for under-achieving, but that doesn’t do anything about the promise itself. That doesn’t stop generations to come from being sucked in. From living their life with the expectation that one day, they too will live happily ever after.

I can’t remember being a huge sucker for fairytales. I was more into stories of adventure. I think I bypassed the Disney Princesses (of today) and launched straight into Pippi Longstocking and Enid Blyton’s world of naughty girls, and of famous and secret sleuths.

I did, however, imbibe in my fair share of teenage romance novels and I did become a day-dreamer. There were even a few Mills and Boon novels thrown in, devoured while staying with grandparents. Was it the effect of these, or was it the long-standing promise I wonder. Either way, I developed expectations. And hopes and dreams.

The promise remains. We live our lives by it. That one day, we will find love. And that it will find us. We will have a family and live happily ever after. Even in today’s more temperate society it is expected. Gay couples – though not able to walk down the proverbial aisle – can have children and it is more and more usual to see blended families and those of various shapes and sizes in our communities.

What then of we singles? Generally through no choice of our own. There are times when we are discriminated against. Paying more for ‘one’ of things; not reaping some of the tax deductions which we have contributed to; assumptions made of our selfishness – having disregarded love and family to live frivolous and indulgent lives!

But the most painful thing for me is the broken promise. And even more so (I must admit), others perpetuating that promise in front of me. Sometimes it is akin to flaunting accidental pregnancies in front of someone who is infertile; basking in the glow of new love when a friend has had their heart broken; or cooking up a storm in front of a dieter. A slap in the face. Not on purpose, but a strike nonetheless.

Recent occasions stick in my mind. At Christmas my niece was talking about an old toy that she should give away, having grown ‘out’ of it. Her mother said that she needed to keep it so she could give it to her daughter. A dear friend recently wrote that she dreams of her son’s future wife.

Small things. Throwaway comments. These aren’t things said or done with any malice. They are said based on the assumption. That promise again.

I cried (in private) after the former incident. Similar things would have been said to me when I was young. It was always assumed that I too would have a child. Several probably. I definitely thought it would happen. But it hasn’t. For many reasons – some I am conscious of, and others I am not.

As a child, when I imagined my life, I was married to some wonderful man and I had a family. I didn’t think too much about my career. About divorce or infidelity. That wasn’t part of the fairytale. The fairytale ended where they walked off into the sunset.

Nevertheless – even with our changing society, our more flexible definition of families - we still aspire to the fairytale. We still assume the ultimate prize is to grow up (healthy and happy) to be in love (and loved) and to make a family.

It is important to have hopes and dreams for a future; something to look forward to. Would I have even wanted to grow up, had I known that ‘this’ existence would be my life? I am not sure. Perhaps I needed the fairytale, perhaps we all do. But maybe it shouldn’t be a promise; or an assumption. Perhaps the stories we tell our children shouldn’t hint at a utopia. Perhaps we should ensure they know that reality isn’t always as perfect as the fairytale. Whether the reality is influenced by fate, luck, or our own behaviour requires further exploration.

But in the interim, be careful of how you sell the promise; how you perpetuate the fairytale. It doesn’t always happen. And, if you have always believed the promise, the realization can be devastating.

Roadworks

I seem to have run out of steam. Last month I was ready and raring to go. After some discussion and consultation with friends, I had selected the donor and was ready to ‘procure’ the ampoule (ie. vial), take the necessary drugs and see what happened.

By no means was I feeling confident. I wasn’t expecting that ‘anything’ would have the first time. Or maybe even the second or third, or …….

But I was ready. I had stopped drinking alcohol and started my pregnancy multi-vitamins. I was forcing down vegetables and yoghurt, thinking for once, of someone other than myself and my own gratification when it came to food.

I had been on my ‘shake’ diet for over a month – with some results according to colleagues who noticed the difference. I was waning though. My parents had visited (always a chance to run amok), but I had the motivation to get back on track and to continue. I had already decided I try to lose weight over coming months – in the event I did become pregnant.

I have been very conscious that I am 41 years old. And overweight. Perhaps very much so. If I have a child, I will need to be fitter and healthier. Surely this was now enough motivation to continue.

Then I had a follow up appointment with my doctor. I have been on thyroid medication for years, and my last check was 12 months prior. I gather that the thyroid functioning can have some big (and bad) impacts on your pregnancy and a child. So, I went back for the results of my test (as well as my vitamin D and rubella levels).

My GP was interested to hear how things were going and happy and chatty as usual (which is possibly why she is always late and why I am charged for a ‘long’ visit each time I see her). I told her that I was about to start the fertility drugs and would be attempting to get pregnant ‘this’ cycle.

We agreed to change my thyroid medication. Then, the crunch – she wanted to take my blood pressure again. After the dismal reading the previous visit, I knew little would have changed. Again, after 6 reads we still didn’t get it to under 148/100. This was not good she said. So, she gave me a prescription for medication. And, she said she wanted me to see an obstetric physician. This person, she said, would look after me. Something which isn’t really the focus of the actual obstetrician.

I suspect this is all semantics and my GP wants to cover her butt. But, she said that she once had a woman who lost a baby at 36 weeks for no reason other than that the mother’s blood pressure became too high.

She said that, given I am paying so much money (and am not a spring chicken), we need to maximize my chances. I acknowledge this, but …..

So, I left with my prescriptions and referral. I wondered about the referral. What it would achieve. I also made an appointment to go back to get my blood pressure checked.

The next day, I called the obstetrician to advise that I wouldn’t be visiting them this month. The nurse reminded me that next month is Easter and so blood bank closures may mean it isn’t possible then either.

It feels worse than that though. I feels as if everything has lost momentum. I no longer think that this is actually happening (despite the fact I have paid for the donor sperm which is sitting somewhere waiting for me). The diet has gone out of the window, along with any sense of caring about my body.

It shouldn’t be this way. I should continue to be on the verge of the biggest thing that has ever happened in my life. But, instead I am despondent and uncertain. Not of my decision, that is one thing that I am sure about. That I want to have a child. I want to be a mother. That dream, however, just seems further and further out of my reach.

Untouched

It isn’t uncommon for me to feel tired and emotional as I head home from work at the end of the day. The trip home yesterday (however), was worse than usual. I didn’t feel well. I’d had a long day, had a headache and was tired, and… had a pilates class to go to before I could eat, sleep or just loll around feeling sorry for myself.

The bus was busy and I noticed the rather cute young man as he got on, before he came and sat next to me.

Normally I feel self-conscious when it comes to bus seating arrangements. I am not petite by any means, so I worry about whether I leave enough room on the seat for my neighbour as I cram myself against the side of the bus like a demented contortionist.

It was a slow trip. My neighbour pulled out a book. I lamented that I’d left my headphones at home and had nothing to read. But I was so tired, I rested my head against the window and closed my eyes.

About 15 minutes and barely any distance travelled, I looked down. Despite his ‘slacks’, I could tell he had nice legs.

They were long with his thighs reaching the seat in front. They weren’t narrow and they looked strong. Even encased in dark slacks.

I noticed his hands. That was when I almost lost it.

They weren’t amazing hands. But they were male hands.

I was completely overcome with a sense of loss. A loss for something I do not have and, in many ways, have never experienced. The sense of touch, of affection and of love.

For the next short while, I ached. Not for him specifically, but I yearned to reach out and touch his hand. Or for him to hold mine. The sensation, the desire was almost palpable. That sense of touch, of intimacy.

I wanted to cry. The tears hovered, but remained unshed, instead blurring my vision. In that moment I felt devastated. Completely alone and perhaps always to be so. I had only seen my niece the day before and we had hugged. Two weeks before I had seen my parents and I know we hugged.

But there, on that bus, and in that moment, I felt bereft of human contact, or more importantly, of love and affection. I longed to grab his hand, to feel his touch. To feel that contact.

A massage therapist once told me that it isn’t uncommon for female clients (those who are widowed or divorced in most cases) to cry when she massages them. The feeling of being ‘touched’ is more than a physical one. It also touches their heart and their soul.

In my darker moments I worry that I go through life untouched. An emotional wreck at times, but with a cold, unyielding, untrusting and unforgiving heart, set up to protect itself from others.

In the meantime, the bus trip continued and I sat there with my eyes glued to the hand next to me - tempting and teasing me at the same time. I tried to imagine the happiness, the pleasure, joy and comfort that a hand (in mine) could hold. But instead I was confronted with the solitude, isolation and lonlieness before me.

The Journey begins....

So, the journey (to quote Australian Idol, So You Think You Can Dance and Biggest Loser contestants) has started.

I won’t go into boring details, but the past two – three weeks have seen a bit of a flurry of activity on the ‘trying-to-have-a-baby’ front. No actual ‘action’ yet, but decisions made. For now, anyway.

It has been daunting. Following my last entry, I spent some time questioning my own motivation. “Is this really selfish?” (To want to have a child.) But, no one asks partnered-women that question. You don’t hear, “Oh my god, you are pregnant – you and your husband are such selfish beings!” So, I decided – for a change – not to worry about what anyone else is thinking. My support has come from surprising places.

I have now sat through appointments with my own GP and obstetrician, before joining the sperm donor register (as a recipient obviously?!). Joining this register involved a hefty fee and appointments with a nurse, psychologist and then – the one we have all been waiting for – the holder of the donor profiles …. the Register Coordinator. The latter happens to be a very lovely young woman who appreciated my sense of humour (and who wouldn’t you may ask) and was supportive and laid-back in her manner, oh, and (it seems) a font of information.

I had wondered about the difference between American and Australian donors, and probably should have asked sometime sooner. Apparently the sperm held on the former are far more…. ummm… virile. Hmph, I wonder if that dispels a number of myths about Aussie men?! But no, the reason is that American men can be paid to donate sperm, so there is more ‘in it’ for them. Obviously the clinics there can also then afford to send “only the best” (hopefully) over here. It is illegal to buy sperm in Australia, so Aussie men aren’t paid for their donations. Most would do it solely out of the goodness of their heart. While I gather things are slowly changing, it means that the donors on-hand aren’t quite as potent as their American counterparts. There are less to choose from and the clinics can’t afford to be fussy. The Coordinator tells me though, that this is changing as society changes.

For recipients it means that the costs vary significantly as you have to meet the costs involved. Obviously bringing the frozen vials from the US racks up a few dollars. Hence the (almost) $1000 cost. Whereas, you are only responsible for storage fees if you are buying the Australian vials. (Note I am saying vials, as there is only so many times I can bring myself to use the word – sperm – in one sitting!)

So, I left my appointments with a wad of donor information – including some photographs. The level of detail included on the American donor forms is amazing – from their stats (height, weight, facial features, high school GPA, SAT scores) to their interests, favourite authors to their motivation for donating. But, of particular interest is their essay to a future / potential child.

For me, it meant that the next step was to sit down, start sifting and ‘rating’. My criteria was simple. The donor needed to look like me (so a potential child will); and they needed to be someone that (had I been more fortunate) I would have been attracted to and interested in. Finally, because I have the ability to do an objective paper-based cull, I also discounted those who had a history of illness (cancer, heart disease) in their family.

I selected two with two maybes. I talked to some friends about my decision: the fair-haired doctor (what a walking cliché I am?!); a roman-nosed (!!) student with musical tendencies and lovely essay; a very tall outdoors-y type; or a guy who says he looks like Tom Cruise (although in his photo he has a very round head… but that could be a result of a very-tragic bowl haircut).

So, the decision (for attempt no.1) is made. I suspect it will take many attempts and may not ever happen. But, at least I am trying and that’s all I can do.