I can count the times I’ve been to Las Vegas on one hand. The first time I went I ended up at a gay bar called “Fruit Loops” a mile off the strip at 4am with no shoes and missing my leggings and undershirt, so basically I was wearing sandals I bought in the bathroom from a drag queen and a bathing suit cover up.
The second time I went was for my amazing friend Megan’s bachelorette party, where I ended up at another gay bar getting my face licked (without invitation) by men and bruised knees from falling on the strip in my heels.
The last time I went I ended up $600 dollars richer and (almost) pregnant!
Since then I had one other offer to go with a group of super amazing women, but because I was ovulating (which basically runs our lives the way I imagine children do) I decided to stay home with the old ball and chain.
The opportunity to go this weekend is just too perfect to pass up. One, because I have never been to Vegas with Allison, despite her very persuasive efforts and two because I just got my period. Holy Hell, was that depressing. After weeks of charting, sleeping with a thermometer in my hand, taking Metformin (which makes my stomach feel like I ate a box of gerbils that want to get out) and collecting my own pee in a cup every single morning…. I was incredibly disappointed. So when I told Louie about Al, Day, Brit and Mikey going to Vegas and he thought it would be fun, I jumped at the occasion.
In some ways I feel like this trip is a way of “letting go” and “living in the moment” as cliché as that sounds. We get to drop everything and drive off into the desert to get drunk, dressed up and have hotel sex. Which for some reason is always more fun. Not to mention the people we are going with are decidedly fun people. Maybe too much fun, we may in fact be in over our heads. Just as long as neither of us gets lost and no one slips anything in our drinks, we should be able to keep up… barely. For that exact reason we decided to stay Sunday night to recover and avoid traffic. Plus we’ll be able to sleep in with the AC on, because the only time I’m allowed to turn that shit on is when Lou isn’t here to give me shit about it.
We had to cancel all of the plans we made this weekend, which was the hardest part of deciding to go. Neither of us like disappointing people, so telling his parents and my BFFL that we were jetting off for the weekend instead of swimming and stuffing our faces was a little nerve wracking. Luckily they didn’t care all that much. Which means that they either A) know we need a break, or B) don’t give a shit if we’re there or not. I’m convinced Louie’s parents can probably hear me crying in the shower and understand that I need this, and BFFL knows, probably better than anyone, how much I need to get away.
I feel like it’s important to be forgiving and gentile with myself right now. There are moments when I feel like I am one facebook pregnancy announcement away from a nervous breakdown and then there are times I can watch “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant” and laugh when they shit their babies into a toilet. Regardless of the mood of the moment, I know that part of being “infertile” is learning how to take the good with the bad and run with it, I will always be a runner (obviously not an actual runner, but a hypothetical runner, because running blows). Being infertile has taught me to be grateful for what I do have instead of wallowing in the sadness that comes with wanting children and not being able to have them, and right now what I do have is freedom from the responsibility of pregnancy and kids. Would I trade anything for that responsibility? Absolutely. But despite my best efforts, I’m still not pregnant and I need to let that go for now, and just be.