(Sorta) Living My Best Life

You know how sometimes you get these random bursts of happiness and you’re all ‘whoa, I don’t even know who that girl is’? That was me as soon as I got a whiff of summer. I vowed to take my own advice and not let my appointments and ‘could I be pregnant?’-ness get in my way of sunshine and mules: YES I’ll go to the baseball game, and your birthday party, and that dinner you scheduled during the work week! I was feeling good. Not “hey I might finally get pregnant” good, but “fuck this I’m doing it my way” good. Turns out I wasn’t infertile and depressed – I was just cold. So in the spirit of “fuck it!” I made a few life adjustments: Signed another lease for our teeny one bedroom apartment (who needs more space?! NOT ME). Took up weekday drinking again – because I’m reckless and wild and I just don’t believe a spritzer will be the death of my eggs. Ripped the tags off of too-skinny jeans, and bought dresses that will burst before they make room for a bump. There was no more “but I could be pregnant soon”, cause let’s be real…


It was here, in this good place, that I demanded a vacation. I wanted to gather all my polyps (oh yes, there are more) and pills to enjoy some forced relaxation. We discovered a sliver of paradise in a sea of Zika: the Bahamas have been cleared for months (thanks for the heads up, guys), so I took those Infertile Points and off we went. But wait! As I stuffed my bag full of a month’s worth of underwear and bikinis (what more does a girl need?), I realized: this might actually suck. That’s the beauty of trying to conceive – you’re always being thrown a new batch of shit and ISN’T THAT SO FUN?! Going on vacation during the TWW is great because then you get the opportunity to develop new infertile vacation worries that you never even thought about, like:

Preparing for Take-Off. As if sitting in a hotbox or germs for hours on end isn’t bad enough, you’ll start to question the impact that a tumultuous take-off can have on your possible embryo. I once scoffed at a woman who asked if her bumpy car ride to work would make implantation impossible (oh honey, no), but an aggressive plane landing? Shit, maybe.

Cruisin for a Boozin. Remember when your only fear of drinking used to be the possibility of saying something you’d regret? Ah, those were the good days. Now imagine thoughts of estrogen and embryos floating through your head as you sip on another cocktail. Whispers that you’re going to ruin implantation, hurt your maybe-embryo, and get too tipsy to remember to take your Clomid (something I have done: twice). A week of rumming on the beach? That’ll be a no.

Holy Hot Tubs. Girl can’t even relax in a tub without the fear of hard boiling her eggs. There are strict no hot tub rules for those blessed pregnant women, but there’s also a world of RE’s who insist you avoid the soothing bubbles during your wait as well. What’s the suggested alternative to being submerged in the heat? Dangle your legs in to keep your core from overheating, or if you want to live dangerously – go full body into the group-bath, and then vault yourself out of the tub every ten minutes. Maybe you just want to stick to the beach after all.


Supposiwhatties?: Yeah, you know those cute little blue pills? Well they’re not so cute when you’re picturing a blue bottom on the beach and lord knows what in the sheets. Suddenly the idea of prancing around in a bikini all day sounds terrifying, and not just because you haven’t been doing squats. (Pro tip: these very same pills can also be taken orally, so it might be worth a pleading call to your RE if it means the only thing getting weird looks on the beach is your booty glitter.)


Starvation & Dehydration. This is not a time when you want to deny your body of its most basic needs, but it’s so easy to do. Sorry bruh, I literally cannot stomach three meals a day on these resort prices. Not to mention that I have to maintain my bikini bod. And why would I chug water when the Bahamas is the Baskin Robbins of daiquiri flavors? Oh right, see above…
After scouring the internet for TWW etiquette while on vacay, I was given the impression that if I had notified hotel staff that I was trying to conceive, they would’ve been running into the water to pull me off my paddle board (thank god, my arms are exhausted) and scold me for partaking in vigorous activity during the TWW. If I hadn’t already killed off my chances with airplanes and liquor, I was most definitely playing russian roulette with the hot tub & sun combo. Are we being for real here? Ladies: there will be plenty of time to avoid wine and baths and all things fun if you’re pregnant; you’ll get a whole nine months of can’t-dos! We need to stop putting the TWW on a pedestal and update our mindset from “what if I’m pregnant?” to “what if I’m not?” What are you going to feel like you missed out on if you see that solo line pop up? Stop signing up for lamaze classes and refusing soft cheeses – there’s no bun in that oven yet! So order your pina coladas (extra core!), soak in the tub, and remember that the beach might not cure your infertility – but it’s worth a damn try!

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