Forcing Change

Hi!

Long time, no post, eh?

I know. I fail.

Seriously, though, it's taken all my energy lately just to stay alive and functioning.

This year, one of my resolutions (which I don't normally have, and this year I didn't tell anyone about it because I didn't want to hear about my failure) was to stop bitching and whining about my job. I feel like I've done pretty well, with the exception of a few little gripes here and there.

The last week has blown that to hell.

My supervisor got a staph infection last week. That's fine... He doesn't really do that much anyway. (I'm not really kidding. I'm his backup, and I do a lot of the work. He helps run the sales floor and he writes two parts of the schedule, and goes to meetings. I do the rest.) But he doesn't tell anyone it's staph. He says originally (last Friday) that he's got the flu and he'll be back the next day. Saturday, he calls in. Sunday, same deal. He's scheduled off Monday and Tuesday (which is fine. Whatever.).

Then, late Tuesday night, we get a fax saying he's not cleared to come back to work until Sunday. We have to cover all his shifts. Also fine, except that everyone had hit 40 hours by Wednesday and management will not approve overtime. So we're officially short-staffed.

So I'm stuck doing his work. The two parts of the schedule that take the longest to write, two meetings, and a conference call. Oh, I forgot the best part. My friend A, who is the only other person trained to do the bookkeeping, is on vacation. So I'm also doing that. Normally, A would be at work and I could delegate some of that to make time to get everything else done. Not this time, though. This time I'm moving a mile a minute trying not to kill people while I do way more than one person should attempt to accomplish. But I managed it. Somehow.

I wrote the entire schedule in two hours (twice the schedule I usually do, in less than half the time. Sadly, this makes me feel like I conquered the retail hell gods).

Did I mention I'm taking clomid through all of this?

I think it was kind of a good thing to have the added stress, because now I don't know if the irritability, exhaustion, nausea, and hot flashes are happening because of the medication or if they're a result of poor sleep, overwork, and exhaustion.

Okay. I'm done crying about work now.

I promise.


I finally got my elliptical set up and I've been doing thirty minutes a day. BoyWonder tells me this isn't enough, but I just keep telling him that I could be doing nothing, which is definitely less effective than what I'm doing. And I make sure I mention the fact that the first couple of days, I was only going ten minutes at a time. I think that 30 minutes is a good start. I'll probably bump it up to 40 minutes next week, but for now, I'm okay.

I lost three pounds. I'm interested to see if it's that same three pounds I keep gaining and losing, or if it's actually me getting smaller. Of course, I'm hoping for the latter.

I really didn't expect my interest to last very long. And then I started thinking about PCOS and how fucking angry I am that my body won't work right. That a normal person can just stay at their ideal weight or at least lose weight just by counting calories. That most women don't sweat profusely, all the time. That most women don't grow beards. That every douche on the planet can just get pregnant over and over and over (I think Snooki getting pregnant caused some kind of snap in my brain), but I actually have to work at it.

What was I saying? Oh. So all that anger? I'm pounding the crap out of it on the elliptical. Every single day. Working in some visualization. That for every pound I lose, it's one less whisker. One less cyst. One more chance that I'll ovulate a good egg on this medication and I will finally get a baby. And for fuck's sake... If I don't get pregnant, I will at least get back down to the weight I was when I got married.

I will feel good about myself. I feel better about myself already. Stronger. Happier. But at my wedding weight, I was happy. I felt sexy (which, by definition, probably actually makes you look sexy). I miss that feeling.

So I'm working.

No more sitting around waiting for things to happen. No more hanging out being sad and feeling sorry for myself.

Just forcing change. Because, dammit, it's time.