Saturday, September 8, 2012
The constant battle for the ultimate state of control
10:04 am edt
“So, next time you see a pregnant woman, kick back and have a martini. With
extra olives. Sashay by with the best body you can muster in the highest heels you can navigate. Wax buff with a Brazilian
bikini wax. Let’s see her get into that position…”
Infertility Sucks! Keeping it all together
when sperm and egg stubbornly remain apart, page 20.
I wrote that more than 10 years ago. It still helps. It’s
a state of mind that says, things are broken. But I am not.
Alas, shoes and martinis and bikinis can be bought.
Not so for the kind of body that one wants to sashay and display.
It’s not just about looking
good. A healthy, supple body can also be a more fertile body.
This weighty matter has been another struggle for
me and many others, one that I now realize has gone on way too long — since I was a teen, always fighting to be teeny-tiny.
I have always thought that there’s no time for fussing and fighting my friend. And yet I’ve been fighting
myself for years. It’s asinine and it’s over. I’m over it.
I’m having fun with it now.
I find it interesting and even amusing how our environment tries to lure us into eating and drinking stuff. The way restaurants
show pictures of food — pictures taken with the care of a wedding photographer; the way certain ice cream shops create
a scent so pleasing as to cause passersby to salivate like Pavlov’s dog. (It’s not always only about The Beatles.
I have taken it upon myself to turn these ploys upside down and inside out. So, here’s an
erstwhile eight-inch pizza that at one time, only briefly, had the snake-like power to tempt:
Here’s a recipe that will enable you to have your ‘za and eat it too. No guilt. Just yummy.
piece of Flatout Flatbread (I like the Light Italian Herb.)
Coat lightly with Walden Farms Tomato & Basil Pasta
Sprinkle with one stick or one slice of 2% cheese
Cover with six pieces of turkey sausage
Heat in microwave oven for about a minute.
Season to your liking.
Fend off the rest of the
family or make enough for all.
Now, for that maritini… those olives. Oh, yeah, and the shoes. Always the
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Of drags and dragonflies
So much change. And most all of it good. A big move has us back in our chosen home, South
Florida, for the first time in eight years. Back to friends, family, food and the beach.
5:49 pm edt
And for me, back to the
bike. For many reasons, none of them interesting to anyone who’s not an avid biker, I was not able to ride (happily,
at least) in Orlando or in Tampa.
What a huge loss. I now realize how much I’ve missed it. Sometimes, we’re
so busy making do that we neglect to record our sacrifices.
Now I see, though. Biking is life for me. I love it.
I love that my body can be moving me over the road while my mind is moving me where it will go. Fixing holes. Wandering. Writing.
The highlight of this morning’s ride was the dragonfly that hovered over the sidewalk in front of me as I wondered
how to avoid riding into it. I slowed, slowly. And when we were close enough to touch, the dragonfly glided left, hovered
higher, a show of mutual respect, insect and Homo sapien, woman and machine, the silky morning air our shared delight.
It’s moments like these that can keep me riding for 20 miles at a time, when time permits. Fourteen years ago,
I was on just such a ride when my third (and last — I can take a hint) miscarriage brought me face to face with a reality
that, unlike that kind and wise dragonfly, would not yield.
Pregnancy and me, childbirth and me, were not meant
to be. It was a few years in the making, but I finally figured it all out, went to China and emerged beyond victorious.
It was about a decade later that I heard a doctor at a National Infertility Survival Day® event deliver a presentation
on multiple miscarriages, in which she cited too much exercise as a contributing factor. Aha. 20 miles, indeed. Would have
been nice to know.
If you didn’t, now you do. Dragonflies are great. Miscarriages suck. Stay active and
healthy and balanced. Follow those dragonflies, but if you’re pregnant, especially if you’re considered high risk,
maybe one pretty butterfly, one cute kid on a trike, should suffice. Just for a few months.
No regrets, ultimately,
here. But it’s better to know. The second best part of the ride this morning? Coming home to a still-sleeping family,
my daughter a cocooned, sweet and blessed being. We make room for each other on the path all the time. It is sublime.