Commoditization

Did you know that my time costs money?
And that keeping four vials of sperm in some weird container also costs money?
And that to use them you also have to pay money?
That to sit down in an office with a famous doctor of reproductive medicine for 15 mins. also means you need to get that roll of twenties out?
The world is all about commodity: who wants what, who's got it, who'll give it to you in exchange for something else.

You might have guessed that I'm tired, overworked, irritated, aggravated, and annoyed or I wouldn't be so ironic about something which matters so much to me.

Anyway, there you have it. I had my last hamburger today for the next five months. I will be gradually relinquishing coffee, wine, raw meat and fish, double cream and a slew of other favourite foods in coming weeks to prepare my body. I will even go take that Pilates class on Tuesday evenings (unless Fresco can convince me to take a Latin dance class instead).

Because in June, project baby is on the rails and we only have four more goes left at getting it right.

My body is a temple. Repeat: my body is a temple. Repeat: my body is a temple.

Can I have a glass of wine now please?

cal(h)o(r)rific!

Alas, I'm ready for the chop. Over the past days, the mirrors in the hospital elevators, unlike their trimming counterparts in clothes stores, revealed bumps and blobs that I had never not ever seen before. I was not ready for my close-up, Mr DeMille!

Groan all you will at what follows, but it is a fact that I love my food and I plead guilty to eating for more than one person.

BEFORE & AFTER DISCOVERING MY GODDISHNESS

So, while my aspirations to be a domestic demi-goddess refuse to be put on the backburner, I think the realization has finally dawned on me that double cream is portionable, that butter is not a way of life, and that bread and sugar, although delicious, need to be consumed within bounds of reason.

Don't get me wrong, I do worship my body (although bigger breasts and size 39 feet would have been nice). But the clothing industry does not love me. Nor does it love my booty. Except for Monsoon maybe, which does a good job of creating interesting looks, that fit everybody.

This brings me to my next quandary: I will not succumb to the lure of Weight Watchers, gastric bypass surgery (they won't give it to me, my BMI is off by about 12 points), or light products (that are designed to make you heavier, as far as I am concerned). How will I take on the scale to ensure plummeting numbers?

I think the following weeks will have to be about moderation, sadly*. The word diet does not exist in my vocabulary.

I'll leave you to ponder this, while I go cut myself another slice of my chocolate orange cake...

* The fact that the kind doctors at our centre for reproductive medicine insist that excess weight and artificial insemination do not a baby make is also a contributing factor. But don't worry, this will not become a moderation blog.