You-all know by now I am NOT COOL about talking about my weight. Not cool at all. I find the whole subject painfully embarrassing and irritating, and nothing will piss me quite so off as being given dieting advice.
Nevertheless, I was sent off to lose weight before the IVF clinic would let me come near them and their stabby stabby needles.
Anyway, I sulked a bit (a lot. A lot a lot a lot) and even put on a few pounds. (Yeah, I know. That’s sulking for you). And then I got a grip, and went back to the old ‘eat less and exercise’.
In the past three weeks I have lost 5 lbs.
I don’t know whether to be pleased with myself (this would be the simple, user-friendly option); disgusted that ‘eat less and exercise’ actually works when you, you know, actually do it (the default pissed-off infertile fatty option); or depressed that neither H nor I can see where, exactly, the 5 lbs have come off from (the other default infertile fatty option that is not helping with the pissed-offness).
Oh, all right, I am doing two of my bras up one notch tighter. But I am bloated (provera and constipation, sitting in a tree, kay eye ess ess eye en gee) and, damn it, my waistbands are as tight as ever. And I don’t look thinner. Not a bit. Not that I am vain or anything (Anything, thy name is Woman! May specifically!). It’s just, 5 lbs, you know. It ought to show. It would be ethical of it to show, instead of sneaking off into the night and no-one knowing noticing it’s missing until a post-card from Bermuda turns up seven months later.
There’s no pleasing some people, is there?