So here it is, September, my favorite month. Not because it’s my birthday month; at my age, birthdays are not nearly as thrilling as they used to be. But I love fall weather and thunderstorms and changing leaves. I love sending the kids back to school and I love going back to school, or I would if I could. September: the month of new beginnings.
This year, though, it seems more a month of endings. And crises.
One crisis means that my main freelance gig is going to come to a crashing halt soon. I have other gigs but they are insufficient. I will need to find another part-time main gig that will allow me to continue working my other, smaller gigs, or I will need to find a full-time main gig that will force me to quit most of my other jobs.
I’m not sure I can manage a full-time job because the children-and-house job continues to occupy vast amounts of time, even though the children are big now, and I can’t quit that one. And in any case, I’m not sure I can get a full-time job for all of the sociocultural and economic reasons why a middle-aged mother with only part-time, scattered workforce engagement in the last 16 years can’t get hired.
But it’s September, so I’m feeling hopeful. Sort of.
Today I’m in a coffee shop searching job boards for gigs and coming up with nada. But there’s a fire in the phony gas fireplace and it’s wet and dreary outside and I may just close my laptop and read a novel by a southern woman about southern women. I’m a fan of U.S. subculture lit.