Monday, January 18, 2010

In transition

I'm struggling here. Recall I mentioned earlier how I've accepted a role in another division. Well, this week and the next two or three will be the period that I hand over my portfolio of work to my colleagues. This means doing up generic templates of my spreadsheet models and updating my procedures documents for the benefit of the poor sod who will be running with my stuff.

Trudge. Trudge. Trudge.

Earlier before ducking out to grab lunch, I took the time to check out Becky's Blog where she posted a a reality check on sex which I found quite funny specially when I recall Mr. London Street's consistency around splashing cold water all over that favourite subject of mine, particularly in his recent piece "Irish wristwatch" (which I can say, by the way, but fumbled a bit when trying to type it above). I could fully relate with Mr. Street's having to imagine a scene involving Margaret Thatcher and the Queen Mother to whip some endurance out of his performance in a park episode he related to us.

Hmm, sex doesn't seem to be having a good day today in this part of the blogosphere. I not intentionally caused some feelings of depression in Ms Becky as a result of a comment I made on her blog involving the likely scenario of one's face being replaced by a mental image of somebody else's by the other party during coitus.

That was the least of my worries, though, when my wife and I were trying to conceive our son ten years ago. The first thing my mind worked on when the doctor told us that we were not the most fertile of couples was to look back to the three years of "safe sex" I've been having with my wife up to this point and think "jeez".

So having figured that much out about our prospects, our doctor put us on a monitored conception regime. This basically involved the missus regularly taking a cocktail of ovulation-inducing drugs and the doctor monitoring for signs of that critical process firing up then giving us a hard green light to get it on when said signs appeared. Trouble is, when we got our first green light I had the performance anxiety attack to end all performance anxiety attacks!

I mean, hey, for the first time we were performing to a goal that is the whole point of the act, as Mother Nature originally intended it to be. And that was a new context we were working with. The thing with this new context was that it was totally un-sexy. At that time she was a vessel with something in it that needed to be seeded. I don't know if the original point as a context for sex is as un-sexy as the commercial context that exists in the making of a scene in a porn video. But if it is, I'm thinking man, you just gotta admire the expert tradesmanship of these porn stars!

I got the whole range of flavours across many attempts in the next 24 hours since we got the green light, dude -- some would be a total failure to gain altitude, and some would involve a healthy altitude reached then a failure to deliver the payload as altitude was lost (and everything between the two extremes). We had a failed attempt when we got home from seeing the doctor, then a failed morning attempt the following day, then a day at the office for our trouble. We got on to start that evening's attempt which, as we got into it, started failing as well.

Panic! My wife, as it turned out, was in sync with my sentiments. We have to get this done now. Another month or two of "monitored conception" and we could've easily spiralled into despair!

"Start thinking of Rosanna Arquette or whoever the hell you wank off on!!!"

* * *

Well, I better get back to my "transitioning" work. I promised my son this morning I'd be home early to help him with a lego kit he got from a trip to the mall yesterday.

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