Confession: I have gained 3 pounds in the past 6 weeks. Honestly, I expected it to be worse. My stomach feels larger than it was 6 weeks ago and my face is rounder. It doesn’t seem like a measly 3 pounds could have made such a big physical difference, but there it is. 6 weeks ago, I couldn’t wear the maxi skirt I wore to work yesterday without a safety pin, but yesterday I required no safety pin. Again—3 pounds? Hmmm.
I would love nothing more than to point to clomid and follistim and birth control pills and progesterone and declare, “THOSE EVIL BASTARDS ARE MAKING ME FAT!” except that the reality is that I had ice cream for dinner on Wednesday night. I cooked a wonderful, healthy meal for us, but was nauseous and didn’t feel like eating until several hours later when Catch asked if I could get us ice cream. Suddenly, HELLO APPETITE. Zucchini & tomatoes were a no go, but I wasn’t about to turn down rocky road. Excellent.
So, here I am 5 days from our first real IVF appointment and I am up 3 pounds, haven’t stepped on a treadmill in weeks, and I’m eating ice cream for dinner.
Houston, we have a problem. I will call the problem burnout.
All those months ago (November!) when I started working out like a fiend and dieting like a boss, I had the clearest picture in my head: it’s going to work. And in January when I surpassed the goal my RE had given me and she was so impressed saying that her patents never actually lose the weight she recommends, I was floating on a cloud. It’s totally going to work. I earned this. I am a rock star.
And then—well, three strikes, you’re out. It didn’t work. I am anything but a rock star.
So, yes—I’ve been feeling defeated. It’s also been hotter than hell and we don’t have central air conditioning. Not the greatest environment for the treadmill. Plus, we’ve been traveling and crazy busy and all of these things combined lead us right back to ice cream for dinner. Although points for me that we didn’t already have ice cream in the house and I had to actually go get our scoops. I guess that’s something.
This is all my very lengthy way of saying that I need to put an end to this behavior. Now. Last week. Whatever. So far, I’m doing better. I avoided my mother’s cheese and bacon laden tomato pie last night, opting instead to roast myself some veggies and make a turkey patty. Progress.
I started taking the Glucophage XR last night. (They are giant horse pills that taste like snot. Yay!) I will not allow myself to take drugs for insulin resistance while continuing to count rocky road as a nutritious alternative to zucchini. I may feel like crap, but damnit, I am going to eat my vegetables and we are going to do this.