Wayne’s truck could come up the driveway any second; I’ll load up my duffel of gear (probably forgetting a few juicy items), and we’ll head out on the fly fishing equivalent of an extreme long shot.

I don’t usually play odds this long (a small stream that may be accessible to us, and even if it’s reachable, it’s likely over its banks), but I’m feeling peevish about life in general.

That suggests I’m rolling the dice because I’ve got little to lose, which, sadly, is accurate.

Without going into the grim details, a weeklong (and largely wasted) roadtrip was followed by an L&T biz trip, which unhappily coincided with a sick daycare provider — all of which added up to me getting damned little actual work done the last couple weeks.

I’m seriously behind with one client and wishing things were that good with another.

And in an environment like that, you either kiss the contracts good-bye, or…

You postpone your weeklong fishing trip to Tennessee.

Crap.

Raine said he understood these gigs were important and Myrna told me it was OK; I’d fallen behind because I was being a responsible dad and plenty out there weren’t very responsible (my first irrational thought was “why can’t I be more like them?”).

Still, it rankles (that’s a highly literate word for “I had an adult temper tantrum”).

I’ll get that trip, but it’ll be later in the year, and things like this do force me to ask questions about the life I’ve built — and the lack of balance therein — that I’d rather not face.

Right now, all I’m interested in facing are some little small stream trout, who — by any reasonable estimation — I won’t be able to reach, much less catch.

That, dear Undergrounders, is a fitting metaphor for the last month.

See you (hopefully) on the stream, Tom Chandler

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