Let Go, Let Hog
I gave up on this cycle after the last post. The LH surge went on, and I gave up. I ate some tasty pork parts and didn't shower for a day or two. We could have continued, some day I'll probably tell myself that we should have, but it felt fundamentally unproductive. I considered it, figured the odds of success were remote at best and then enjoyed the rest of my weekend.
That, right there--that was the odd part. I enjoyed the rest of my weekend. I was glancingly irritated, I was intermittently wistful, but I was completely fine. I wrote off an entire cycle because I couldn't be arsed to have more sex with my husband; hell, I couldn't even be arsed to keep peeing on sticks to see if I ever, in fact, ovulated. My period will arrive at some wholly indeterminate point in the next few days or weeks and that will be that, and at this moment, I am fine with it.
It's so strange to me, this sanguine acceptance of my own lack of effort, my lack of control. It feels, frankly, like a drug. Why am I not pummeling myself for laziness? Why am I not berating myself for giving up on one of the dwindling cycles my tired ovaries have left? Why is my sky not falling? Why am I not acting like, you know, me.
Do other people actually live like this, full time?