We had friends staying this weekend, which I had been looking forward to like anything, as they are such adorable friends. I was in a bit of a panic Friday morning, as I had a Cold of Filth coming on, and for all I knew dinner would be a disaster as my sinuses blocked solid and my eyes swelled shut and my nose ran like a tap. I felt so dreadful I went home at lunch-time, and lay down with a cup of tea and two paracetamol. They rather worked, though, and I was able to cook dinner and thoroughly enjoy myself [no anecdote there, then].
I didn’t mention the lit candle to them. I was asked, afterwards, why on earth I hadn’t, as after all these are friends who know all about the Woebollocky and would have been wonderfully kind and sympathetic. And the answer is, well, weirdly, because they would have been wonderfully kind and sympathetic, and I cry when people are nice to me, and what with the Cold of Filth and the wine and the fact I was cooking and the strong, strong desire to actually enjoy my friends’ company and not mess with their heads by blubbering snot all over everything including their shirt-fronts, I chose to not mention it. Chose is a strong word. I didn’t see a good opportunity to mention it that I was comfortable mentioning it at/in. And I must make very very very clear this this was entirely about my own discomfort and shyness about crying in public and need to have a good cheerful evening. I do have friends who can be a bit awkward and uncomprehending about the Woebollocky Dreariness. These are not those friends.
I actually rather liked the fact that I could remember Pikaia, Flash, Zombryo, and the two Schrödingers, remember them with a full heart and much, much love and longing, and yet still laugh my arse off with my funny, funny friends. Sometimes, I have felt the grief and frustration swamping my life altogether and screwing with my ability to have a good time, staining everything grey and dreary. And that’s not what I want. OK, so I am giving a decade of my life to Project Genesis, but only a decade. Not all of the rest of it. So I must drink wine and laugh from a full, heavy heart, and grow the mental muscle necessary to do so with ease.
Cold of Filth had its filthy revenge, though, and I woke up on Saturday wondering who had set fire to my throat, completely hoarse and coughing horribly. Luckily my friends weren’t depending on me for entertainment, so I spent the weekend slumped at a variety of deflated angles in front of the Star Trek movie extravaganza on Film4. Why yes, in tatty jogging bottoms. Very glamorous. H made me tea every hour on the hour, and, err, that’s it. That’s all we did. Make tea. Drink tea. Rinse (through kidneys), repeat.
I may be somewhat better this evening. Good-oh. Just in time for work.
Meanwhile, in the Innards category, did I ovulate on Tuesday, or was it all mere mind-fuckery and hormonal disarray? Inquiring minds want to know. Including mine. My temperature has gone up (yay!), and stayed up (double yay!), but my *ahem* TMI warning *ahem* cervical mucus hasn’t quite dried up or gone completely non-stretchy. Normally it does this within 48 hours of ovulating. Or, occasionally, 72 hours. As I have PCOS, I do get days and weeks on end of EWCM pre-ovulation, as my body produces too much oestrogen and grinds its gears over and over again, trying to pull off the correct hormonal surge to pop an egg. So, I am concerned, quite, quite strongly concerned, that I haven’t ovulated, and the high basal body temperature is due to this asinine cold.
But Dr Google did at one point try to convince me that colds can cause prolonged EWCM, as, you know, mucous membranes react to cold viruses by gearing up production. Yes, I thought. The ones in the respiratory tract do (sneeze, blow nose, sneeze, blow nose again, whimper). But… down there? It’s a rhinovirus. Surely you don’t catch colds in your unmentionables*. Surely? Oh, said Doctor Google, your entire system reacts to a virus. All your mucous membranes get the message to go on the defensive.
Do you know what? I don’t believe a bloody word of it, and the Positive Thinking Fairy can just fuck off. We’ll just see what my temperature is doing tomorrow, shall we, now that I feel a bit better? Quite. Harrumph.
*Heavy irony, given that I mention them all the freaking time.