I feel like I am training for a frigging marathon.
I mean, how many fruits, veggies and folic acid can one person take? I got through my 35 minutes on the elliptical this morning not out of a fondness for exercise but because I was pretending I was kicking the damn machine.
Let me explain.
Before we even went to our consultation, hubby and I decided that if someone was willing to have eggs extracted from her body and given to us, and all of modern medicine was being summoned to help, the least we could do was get our own bodies right. He = a super sperm making machine able to penetrate and impregnate the thickest of eggs. Me = a well-nourished, organically grown, fit and trim, um, vessel (for lack of a better word.)
It hasn’t been that painful because we started down this fitness thing several months ago. So the gym thing was already happening, as was the better eating, no fried foods, bladdedy blah.
But as we are getting closer to something actually happening, I am feeling an intense desire to get down to my “normal” body mass index (or BMI as those red-shirted personal trainer f*ckers at the gym like to call it). This calculator tells me I have 11.5 lbs. to go. A little more if you don’t believe I’m 5’ 5”, which my husband does not.
Why the urgency? Well, there is a definite connection between successful IVFs and BMI. I’ve read it in enough reputable sources (that, of course, I can’t locate this morning) to become convinced.
So, portion sizes have been reduced, the Mayo Clinic cookbook comes out. This wine-with-dinner gal is sipping iced teas and seltzers and HATING it. But I figure a gradual reduction now will ease the pain of nine months of abstinence, should we be so lucky.
Not that hubby is getting off scott free. I am the cook so my portions are his portions. I think I have inserted pumpkin seeds into every recipe I have. He was working from home yesterday and I actually made him take off his pants to facilitate a free and easy environment for his little guys.
Have I veered into the realm of too much information?
Well, I’ll leave it at that then. With images of me trying to inflict harm on an aging piece of gym equipment and my husband walking around pantless, puzzled but still aiming to please.
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