Why, do you suppose, have I started ovulating spontaneously? Well, yes, erratically, to be sure, but I am the Girl Who Does Not Ovulate. Was the Girl Who Does Not Ovulate (and, ha ha, probably will soon go back to being the Girl Who Does Not Ovulate).
Do you think it might be the exercise after all? For the past three months or so, three to five times a week, I have been walking from work or uni right across town to the Big Train Station, instead of taking the bus or the tube. This walk took about 45 minutes the first time, now takes 35 minutes, and will no doubt take 30 minutes by Easter. And, I have lost, well, not much weight at all, to be honest – I still tip the scales at Moby Dick’s Terrifying Little Sister. But my clothes are hanging off me, trousers that were tight are now loose, my bras fit weird (yes, I know, must go buy more bras – I hate buying bras, by the way, so very very few bra cups seem to be the same shape as my bosom these days. Overflowing at the top of the cup while there are folds and folds of loose fabric over my nipples is not a happy look, whatever the tom-fool flat-chested lingerie assistant may say. But I digress). If it is the exercise, and I suppose it must be, I shall have to go and trample flat every single person who ever recommended that I exercise more because if a single one of them says ‘I told you so,’ I will burst into flame; it will be for their own good really.
Which begs the question, do I take Clomid next cycle? Should I take Clomid? I am very aware the ACU thinks I should and are just waiting breathlessly for a chance see my undercarriage again. I am very aware that my luteal phase is short. I am very aware that Queen Satsuma could go on strike again at any moment – I miss a week’s walking because of rain, I eat a leeeetle to much chocolate, wham, she lies very much down and plays possum. For any given unspecified length of time from a week to a year. More than a year. Years on end. Whyever not. Spectacular little underachiever that she always has been.
I am also aware that my irritatingly melodramatic body likes to make a big deal of ovulating now. Ye gods and little fishes know what it’ll do when kicked into stupefied cooperation with a chemical cosh. Is this scaring anyone else but me (and H – oh, it is very much so scaring H)?
I am also also aware that Clomid is not magic special pixie baby-dust and has been known to Not Work. And sometimes, to Not Work And Make It WORSE. And blow ovary up with bicycle pump.
I have, let me see, until Tuesday week to decide what to do about this.
And the Satsuma totally owes H £6.75 for the prescription fee for the Provera we didn’t need.
P.S. Dear blogspot blogging people who chat to me – I am having real trouble signing in with OpenID. I think I have signed in, it says no I haven’t, and promptly deletes my comment for insubordination into the bargain, and after three rounds of this I do just give the heck up. I do love you really, and am reading, but if there’s no option to comment with just name and url, then I can’t comment. I am trying to work out what kind of a raging clutzathonic eejit I am being and what perfectly obvious step I am failing to take, and I’ll be back as soon as I’ve got it.