So. Gynaecological Consultant Lady In Charge of ACU gently nagged me about my weight the last time we saw her. (About a month ago, for those who do not play the linky-click chase chase game). Whereapon I started exercising again. Admittedly with a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle, but a brisk walk is not dependent on the Mad Smiley like ice-dancing is.Thank God.
And I ovulated. Spontaneously, no drugs. I made me mine! Two weeks later than ‘normal’, but hey, we have totally established that there is no normal at Casa May. Except for the weekly laundry crisis when every single shirt I own seems to be either a) filthy, b) damp or c) mysteriously invisible. That’s apparantly very normal.
Over the summer, not exercising at all and living on a diet of latte, white bread, and pecan pie slices, I did not ovulate. For the first year after I came off the pill, eating even quite sensibly but very much not exercising regularly (I’d manage it for, oh, three days in a row, burst with pride, and spend two weeks recovering in a prone position), I DID NOT OVULATE FOR THE ENTIRE YEAR NOT ONCE. I grew polyps instead and became the central feature of a perfomance art piece entitled: ‘Dracula’s Mirror Image: Permanent Bleeding As Life-Style Choice.’ Only, I forgot to wear white all the time. Though there was the war paint episode.
When I came off the pill for the second time last Autumn, I ovulated. Late, and pathetically, but I ovulated. More than once. Without clomid. And I was exercising then. And I lost weight right up until That Whole Sorry Business That Spoilt My Birthday, Possibly Forever, Fuckit.
So. Exercise is good for me and helps regulate my hormones and bully Satsuma into stunned compliance. Exactly as all those sodding annoying medical professionals promised.
Damn damn damn damn damn.