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"In this tempestuous, havoc-ridden world of ours, all real communication comes from the heart."

- Etty Hillesum

February 03, 2006

What a drag it is getting old.

What a drag it is getting old.

I was driving to class this morning (I�m a graduate student, for those of you who are new here) and I was listening to the Rolling Stones. LOUDLY.

�Mother�s Little Helper� came on.

And I know the song is about tranquilizers.

But with a little tweaking, and a mind focused on your own infertility problems, you can easily change the lyrics so that the drugs she needs are fertility drugs.

Doctor please, some more of these
Outside the door, she took four more
What a drag it is getting old

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Actually, what I find most interesting in my life right now is this weirdo waiting thing. I�m just waiting for my period to show up, so I can take birth controls for three weeks, have another period, take estrogen, and implant my frozen embryos.

That�s like, a whole lot of nothing.

And maybe if you�ve never been under intense medical care, you�ll think I�m strange.

But it feels WEIRD to not have anything going on. No doctor�s appointments. No racing home at a certain time to give myself an injection (or three).

I actually miss the interaction with my doctor. And I miss actively doing things that will maybe, someday, hopefully get me pregnant.

I mean, hey, we�re actively having sex � but in our case its status has been changed from a procreational activity to a strictly recreational one.

What the hell am I supposed to do with my free time now that I�m not rushing around to doctor�s appointments? I feel lost.

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I am living one of life�s true ironies right now.

I�m a nurse, and as a nursing graduate student, we do a lot of clinical hours. Not just papers and tests and crap (although we have a lot of those, as well) � we do a lot of hands-on, see patients and do things with them type projects.

One of my current projects is working with two patients (�clients,� we call them at the graduate level, as though we�re making money from them or some such nonsense). I have to work with them in a series of �wellness counseling sessions.� That is, they want to lose weight, and I�ve got to help them figure out how to get motivated to do so. Help them set goals, that sort of thing.

Yet here I sit, not ten feet from the treadmill, and I DO NOT WANT TO GET MY FAT ASS IN GEAR TODAY.

I�m finally down to 151 � that�s four pounds up from my recent low of 147 and the fabulous size ten jeans that ZIP instead of having elastic.

Of course I know that those four pounds are water that I�m still carrying around from that damned surgery a few weeks ago. And you know what? Walking isn�t going to get rid of those four pounds.

Granted, walking could get rid of some of my other excess poundage. I�m not that dense in the head.

But it doesn�t seem to matter. I�m all �eeeeh� about losing the weight. Mostly, or partly, I�m sure, because the minute I start shooting up with Mother�s Little Helper Hormones, I�ll gain gain gain! And there�s nothing I can do about it. Excess estrogen makes women put weight on their bellies and thighs. God wants it that way. He�s a wicked supreme being with no respect for infertility issues.

Yet I get to go counsel my two patients on why they should get off of THEIR fat asses and hit the treadmill. Irony!

Lest you think I am a total sloth (although I don�t care if you do or not, since you don�t live in my house and I don�t have to see your eyes rolling back in your head when my ass stays off the treadmill until it�s good and ready to get on) � my husband, on return from Las Vegas last weekend, stated to me, �We need to start the South Beach Diet. I�m fat and want to lose weight.�

I�d rather put hot pokers in my eyes than restrict my carbs on a stupid fad diet� I can lose weight by cutting back and just eating LESS of everything. But he can�t, bless his heart, and if I don�t South Beach with him, he won�t diet. And he weighs about fifty pounds more than he did when I met him, and I liked my tall skinny sexy man a whole lot, so I�ll do anything (re: hot pokers) to help him get back there.

So I�m on the South Beach Diet by default. So even if I don�t treadmill, the muffins and bread and rice and pasta will begin to melt off of my thighs anyway � just not quite as quickly as it would if I was MOVING at the same time.


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Last Few Entries

Back? - November 10, 2007
Just a break. - June 19, 2007
Caddy day in the pool. - June 05, 2007
Sleep! And sleep, and sleep! - June 01, 2007
Happy days are here again ... - May 30, 2007

� More about Etty Hillesum, the woman in the photo.�