So I started wondering if there is any clinical basis for IVF drugs to make me put on weight. I like to be prepared. Like, for the end of the world if possible. I have a zombie survival plan. Enough said.
And turns out that none of the drugs have any caloric or metabolic influence at all. *gasp* controversy. It’s just that they make you feel shit and that makes people comfort eat. Hello four strawberry milkshakes – without ice cream – in one day. Which still gave me chronic belly pains and I appeared to be randomly grimacing at people all day. Awkward.
Also, most people don’t want to exercise when they feel shit so strawberry milkshakes + couch = putting on weight. Strawberry milkshakes also = brings all the boys to the yard. And they’re all like, it’s better than yours. Damn right, it’s better than yours. I can teach you. But I’d have to charge.
Ahem.
I haven’t put on any weight. All these IVF drugs, and not a single gram. I like to be all pious and proud of being lean and fit and strong… but if I could eat chocolate or donuts or cakes or ice cream or lollies then it would totally be a different story. But all those things upset my tummy because of Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and combined with the rampaging effects of the hormones on my tender tummy it’s pretty much like having hormone induced involuntary bulimia.
And the exercise. Oh, the exercise. I workout like a military operative, fuelled by pure anxiety. I’m not sure it’s entirely normal to do 750 jabs, 750 upper cuts, 750 military punches, 750 knees, 1200 star jumps, 150 butt lifts and eight minutes of skipping every night. But it helps. Every little bit helps. Helps with the anxiety, helps keep my weight down, helps clear my head. Although now I have to go and see my physio because my knee keeps aching. I’m getting old. Either that or it’s going to rain.
My point is, I really like strawberry milkshakes. My other point is, this whole thing is a mind game. You can’t win or lose this game, you can just get through it however you can, whatever it takes.
Sometimes I get by with a little help from my friends. As in, I was complaining about my nasal spray causing massive hot flushes, oh my god why the fuck is it so hot in here? And she says ‘that must be like snorting cocaine. You’re like Lindsay Lohan, you’re going to have to get your nose fixed, that bit in the middle there.’ Which made me snort my tea out that very same nose. Sometimes you just need someone else to point out the funny side to you.
And sometimes, I don’t do very well at it. At all. Here’s an email I sent James:
‘Fuck you. I had to go out and fill up the dog food container because you are too fucked up to manage it. Fuck you.’
Y’all already knew I’m a bad person, right?
And then I feel bad for being mean and I am going to have to help thousands of old ladies across the road to equal out this bad karma but the sad thing is, being blind I’m probably not going to be very good at it so the headline would be ‘Kind Act Results In Death Of Hundreds’ and then A Current Affair would track me down and bang on my door wanting to know why I drag old ladies onto the road in front of cars and then I’d have to move out of my street because none of the neighbours would want anything to do with me and would throw eggs at my house and I’d have to move to Queensland because that’s where everyone leaving Ramsay Street seems to move to. Not that I am so low-brow as to watch soapies. Did you see that Steffi married Liam on the Bold and the Beautiful? I’d totally have to knock off killing old people on local roads at 4.30pm every day to catch The Bold. Maybe I could invite the survivors over to watch it and have a cuppa and a gluten free biscuit. Or a strawberry milkshake.
It’s not easy being on IVF meds. And oh my god why the fuck is it so hot in here?
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