It’s Clobberin’ Time
The past several days have been… surprisingly consistent. I’ve actually been on a roll with yoga — showing up on the mat every day like I’m auditioning for a very chill cult. There’s something deeply satisfying about keeping a promise to yourself, even if your quads are screaming at you in Sanskrit.
Ovulation wrapped up, and Drew and I found ourselves back in those continued conversations I talked about in my last post — the ones about sex when you’re living in the shadow of infertility. It’s a strange mix of tenderness and strategy, of wanting to keep the passion alive without letting it turn into a checklist of “fertile window” obligations. As we’ve kept talking, it’s been evolving — less about what we should be doing and more about finding each other again in the moments that aren’t dictated by a calendar. Those talks are the bridge between the physical and the emotional, the place where intimacy becomes its own form of resilience.
On Saturday, we hit Park Meadows, which was a blast from the past — except now all the stores look like luxury showrooms staffed by people who seem deeply unimpressed by your existence. We went in ready to drop serious money (because suits aren’t cheap), and instead got the Pretty Woman treatment — but without the shopping montage. In so many words, I was told none of the dresses would fit me, and Drew was practically herded toward the clearance rack because he dared to wear a holey t-shirt. We have money. We could have paid full price without blinking. But apparently, if you don’t look like you have it, you’re invisible in a luxury mall. Their loss.
So, we pivoted — because nothing says “DINK life” quite like shrugging off bougie rejection and instead dropping hundreds of dollars on Magic cards after an awesome lunch. Honestly, fancy cardboard is far more fun than a suit that doesn’t fit the sales associate’s idea of you.
Sunday started with an early matinee of Fantastic Four. Overall rating: B-. The plot? Honestly, it’s about a baby. Like, the whole thing revolves around a baby and a villain named Galactus who wants to eat said baby so he doesn’t have to eat planets. Probably not the ideal plotline for someone navigating infertility. And while I felt that sting, I could see Drew feeling it too — because it’s not just my reality. Infertility has a way of touching both people in the relationship, even if the world assumes it’s “a woman’s thing.” Watching Pedro Pascal be the perfect on-screen dad was sweet, but it carried that quiet ache that only we could read in each other’s eyes.
After the movie, we headed to our bocce tournament — but Mother Nature had other plans. We managed maybe ten minutes of play before a severe thunderstorm rolled in like it had a personal vendetta. We could have powered through, but the idea of being pelted by hail for the glory of rec league bocce was… not appealing. Honestly, I’m not sure we’ll sign up again next year. Our captain’s constantly MIA, and we get called in to cover because, well… we “don’t have reproductive consequences.” aka children. Sometimes I wish I had an easy, socially acceptable excuse like that — but I also know that if I did have kids, they’d already be my favorite reason to do anything, not skip it. But maybe that’s what makes me so different - my kids will never be a burden.
And somewhere in between all of that — Tay Tay dropped her new album. I stayed up until midnight just to add it to my cart, because there’s a certain kind of joy in claiming the little things you love. The next few days will be spent soaking in every single track, probably while making dinner or watering the garden, because music has its own way of stitching joy into the mundane.
If there’s a thread through this weekend, it’s this: life is a blend of the big stuff we wrestle with and the small stuff that saves us. Yoga mat wins. Conversations in the dark. Walking out of a mall with your dignity intact. Laughing over Magic cards. The sting of a movie plot and the comfort of knowing you’re not carrying it alone. Storms you don’t play through. And the reminder that sometimes, it’s enough to keep showing up — for yourself, for each other, and for whatever makes the day feel just a little more like yours.
