Yes, this is a post about poop. Well, partly.
I’ve never been exactly “regular.” I’ll go days without pooping even without injecting myself full of hormones. Constipation and I are not exactly friends, but we’re well acquainted.
The past week has been above and beyond my normal discomfort. After days and days of struggling (thanks a lot, PIO), I must have finally found the right combination of stool softeners and prunes because today I had the first decent shit since the transfer last Saturday. Hallelujah.
Thus endeth the poo talk.
Hubby and I have been laughing a lot the past few days. First it was an uncharacteristically humorous episode of The Slap, focused around an elderly couple (specifically the husband) as their family deals with the repercussions of the title incident. The man spends the episode lamenting the passing of his youth, repeating again and again, “I’ll never touch another breast.” After a night of booze, fighting, and yes, boob-fondling, he wakes up next to his old wife, peeks under the sheet, and says, “God is a cocksucker.” Her response? “I’m glad he is because I’m not going near that thing.”
Then last night, Hubby comes home from his run and tells me he’d been listening to a podcast about mindfulness. Keep in mind, Hubby is a scientist and a skeptic. He takes nothing at face value and doubts claims of supernatural or even holistic mind-body phenomena. So I ask him, “Oh yeah? Did you learn anything?”
Without missing a beat, he responded, “I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
I laughed so hard tears started streaming down my face.
Admittedly, I had just finished watching an episode of Drunk History, which may have contributed to this particular case of the giggles.
I don’t know if, as this study claims (thanks for the reminder, Jo), all this whooping it up will have any effect on the outcome of this cycle, but it sure helps keep my mind off of it for a while, which is its own kind of blessing.