Extremely exciting update, and a warning. And some whining. And a possum.
Update: I’m wearing PANTS!
I should perhaps note that I’m talking about American pants here, not British pants. Those I wear every day, ’cause I’m all genteel and shit. I haven’t been able to wear pants since my surgery because the incision site was too tender. This is not much of a hardship as I’m more of a skirts and dresses person anyway, but every now and then a girl wants PANTS. So today I threw comfort to the winds and put on jeans. And I’m still in ’em.
Okay, that was pretty thrilling, so take a moment to recover. Glass of water? Smelling salts?
Warning: Next week I will most likely be ovulating. And I fully intend to have sex around the time of ovulation. As we know, sex doesn’t lead to pregnancy for me, which is why I’m comfortable coming sort of halfway off the bench (no fertility monitor, no stressing about lots of timed intercourse) three weeks early. I mention this because, for me, it’s an extra fierce kick in the stomach when someone gets pregnant and I’m not prepared for it. So now you’re prepared…for me to not get pregnant. But you can put those balloons away, as this is not my official return to TTC-land. And I wanted a chocolate cake.
Whining. Just in case you’re hating me for my ability to wear pants or for my infinitesimally minuscule shot at pregnancy, let me also note that my career is completely FUCKED, everything sucks, and the thought of sweet death taking me felt genuinely nice this morning. Which is not to suggest I’m going to off myself, as I wouldn’t, but DAMN life is wearing me down.
And a possum. Just because I like ’em.