Satsuma was obviously politely waiting for me to finish the beastly dissertation and be in a position to give her my full attention. Today she managed some twinging, a high soft cervix, wateriness, general desire to take flying leaps at husband, a splitting headache, nausea, and dizzy spells. This is what I do when I’m gearing up to ovulate. There must be something about LH and oestrogen that I find profoundly disagreeable. Based on past experience, she’ll probably pop on Friday.
About the flying-leaps-at-husband thing. It’s… it’s annoying, actually, is what it is. There am I, spending a week all bright-eyed and eager and such-like etcetera, and there is he, having nobly signed up ‘for every other night and one for luck on the day of the positive OPK’. And he manfully does his duty. And I want more. And he doesn’t want more. He’s happy with The Plan. He’s braced for The Plan. He’s not in the mood for more than The Plan. The Plan is plenty for a red-blooded young man who has after all been with the same woman for the past fifteen years. And I end up in the sort of temper where I don’t even want to see him wandering past with his shirt off as it’ll only set me off and it’s the other every other night and I shall be so very peeved to be turned down, however politely, that it’s not even funny.
I’m very glad we get back into sync for most of the month. But these few days when my hormones are screaming ‘Shag! Shag for England! Shag right now this minute!’ and his, er, aren’t, are difficult.
Also, embarrassing, as every magazine article and advice column and TV show on the subject EVER assumes it’s the man who is being demanding and insatiable and difficult and selfish and inconvenient and why can’t they grow up and stop thinking with their groin, tsk, honestly. And that women would much rather have a bath with scented oil and some chocolate. And that the way to get around this is to offer to make dinner so she can have the bath?
Of course, there are many nights when this is precisely the case. Bath, heaven. Horizontal folk-dancing, nope. Husband gets slightly pouty. But what is a girl to do when her hormones are going jiggety-jiggety-jiggety-jig, and her husband has suddenly gone tone-deaf, and she made dinner and washed up and husband still doesn’t like baths?
Never mind. Breathe deeply. Think of Johnny Depp. By the weekend, you won’t give a toss. Ha ha.