I feel like the little bird (was it a bird?) in that book Are You My Mother who is walking around all the animals and politely asking, "Are you my mother?"  I know who my mom is, she does a good job of that.  But I feel like I'm asking that question of everything else in my life.  "Are you my career?"  "Are you my home?" "Are you my husband?" walking around not knowing what kind I am and therefore unable to recognize my match when I see it.  The career is the biggest one.  Although I've tried to retrain my brain to stop thinking in absolutes, it keeps doggedly insisting that there must be some perfect career and if it can just sniff out the clues the answer will be there.  So far that dog won't hunt.  

I know I sound like a broken record.  I feel like a wind up toy who does the same song and dance and then just putters out and crashes, only to be wound up again.  I was hoping that my stint in California would be enough of a change of scene to alter these thought patterns, but it turns out the acting troupe in my head is quite flexible, "no problem," they say, "we can set up our stage anywhere to play out this little drama."  

I went rock climbing with my friend Steve last night and he was encouraging me to try grunting.  Tanya, another one of our climbing friends, said that sometimes you can't get past a move without letting out a yell.  I told them I think I have some pent up anger that I'd like to get out while working on the overhang of a 5.10.  My one attempt at a grunt was mostly choked, I didn't make it over the roof.

I have many more analogies to describe my "stuckness," and many explanations for why I think I am stuck.  None of them stick.  I'll save those for later.