Day 4 of clomid. Three pills in, not bad so far.
Had weird night sweats on day 1, followed by massive bloating on days 2 and 3. And today I feel as though my nipples are connected to some sort of switch. They twitch on, they twitch off. On, off, on, off. Sort of like that commercial for insurance – you know, this one:
It feels like I’ve just run 10 miles in a bad sports bra and now I’m chafing or like I’ve been sitting in an industrial strength freezer in nothing but a wife beater.
Anyway, I trigger on Thursday morning and I just read online that you have to have sex 37 hours from the time of trigger.
THIRTY SEVEN HOURS? Who figures this shit out? I mean what’s wrong with 36 hours, or 48 hours. That number is awfully quirky to me. I want to be the scientist that tests when people should or shouldn’t have sex. Seems like an interesting job.
Anyway 37 hours puts us smack dab into Friday night. You know Friiiiiday? The Friday that my mom arrives to stay with us for 4th of July weekend. Yes, that Friday. Excuse me mom while I go knock boots. It’s for a good cause, I promise.
If it’s possible to feel like you’re in high school sneaking around but be an adult in who pays the mortgage in the house you’re sneaking around in, I’m sure that’s what Friday will be like. The worst part is that our bed is over 20 years old (not the mattress, just the frame) so it creaks and squeaks. Like a bad porno, or a bad tween movie, or the hell of my reality which is timed sex with my mother down the hallway.
Although 37 hours after my shot will put us at around 11:30 p.m. so maybe we can just say we need to get some rest for the big BBQ and retire early?
Talk about having this down to a science. Joe has our appointment to hump in his blackberry. Both classy and romantic, wouldn’t you say?
