There are days when I fantasize about winning the lottery so I can move to a hipster neighborhood in Portland and go to M. Ward shows all the time.
There are also days when I fantasize about the tip of my pinky finger getting cut off in the paper-cutter so that I can stay home on worker's comp, watching Castle.
I don't believe in any of that, though. To be honest, I've always been pretty conservative in my hopes, tempering each fantasy with the immediate follow-up of "Probably not." This is why I followed my college graduation with a low-paying job in data entry, following it up with a lower-paid job as a receptionist: I didn't trust that I could get anything better, so I aimed low and got it.
Mamie told us when we met, so many months ago, to keep reminding ourselves throughout the process that it will happen, but, man, I don't think I'm built for that positivity. When Heather was sure she was pregnant on our first round, I felt like my expectations had been oddly betrayed; when she was sure, a week later, that she was not pregnant, I was miserable, but it seemed about right. Friday we tried again, repeating to ourselves that there would be no early tests or internet searches for symptoms of pregnancy this time.
"This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers…. There is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death."
Nevertheless, best of luck to you.
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