And make a wish

This coming Tuesday is the first day of the season in which my workplace announces which singers it's sending where. In an unusual and highly discouraged move, I've put all my chips on one particular city: I figure, it's the only place out of what's offered that I really feel like going (see below about the inexplicable disappearance of my wanderlust; and, no, we still haven't picked a vacation spot). If I get it, I'm probably committed to my career for the next five years (and then, by inertia, through early retirement). If I don't, I'll be redoubling my efforts to look elsewhere (which, given the predictable apathy that followed a little initial burst of CV-sending, will consist of beginning to look elsewhere).

I'm fairly equanimous about approaching this particular fork. I don't think I'll be too disappointed if I don't get it; I don't know that I'll be too excited if I do. But it'll be nice just to know.

The folks who're making the decision are toying with me, slightly. Over two dozen fully-qualified singers have thrown their hats in the ring for this particular job. I've been told I'm "high on the list," and, perplexingly (from those who, after all, are making and have probably already made the decision), to "cross [my] fingers." What, that candidate #1 and candidate #2 should both develop sudden and acute aviatophobia?
Hmm.