Except for not really. I was looking for a fun title.
But it is indeed Monday. The worst of all days. Sunday nights have gotten really depressing for me because I just dread the week so much. Without giving too much away to the internet spies (that probably don’t exist), work just really sucks right now. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, but the tunnel is still feeling really long and arduous. Next weekend Chief and I have no plans whatsoever. WHATSOEVER. And no one is allowed to try and give us any. We need a break like the Olsen twins need a candy bar. Also, Cycle Day 12 is Saturday, which is the alleged beginning to my fertile time. I’ll begin OPK’s around CD 10. I may even spring for the expensive ones from the store instead of the little strip ones we all buy in bulk on Amazon. I’ll still use those and just use the store ones when I think the strip ones are positive.
A week from today is my ultrasound to see if anything is happening in the lady parts department. Then I will come to work and work an incredibly long day (9:00-8:00) because my boss is taking two weeks off and that is her late night. And I’m really, really nice and didn’t want to say no, even though if the doctor see’s something happening I will then have to go home and jump my husband like a rabid hyena. Or something. I’ve been having a little, tiny pang on my right side (it just happened as I was typing!) so I’m hoping that something is a-brewing. But it’s wee tiny. I could just be imagining it. Or it could be indigestion.
Good news in the fitness world! I’m going to start running during my lunch hour a few days a week with a friend who works on the fifth floor in the non-fiction department. She is one of the best people I know-literally a beacon of light and positivity when I really need one. I haven’t been working out and while I haven’t gained any weight, I’m certainly not losing any either. And we’re going into the gain-weight time of year. I refuse to get fat again! I just refuse!
Tonight is my last dose of femara. I’m feeling…okay. I was a weepy, fall apart kind of mess on prometrium. That doesn’t bode well for the first trimester if I ever manage to get knocked up. But God (or whoever really, I’m not picky at this point, please let me get knocked up. I’ll sob like a fool every day of that first trimester if that’s what it takes. And me sobbing ain’t pretty. It involves A LOT OF snot.