I finally understand what Jennifer Lopez feels like. Not because of my string of celebrity boyfriends, my diva-like behaviour, or because I have a set of twins brewing in my uterus. (Although fingers crossed for the latter).
It is because people seem to be suddenly obsessed with my arse.
The husband has started his nightly bumming. Not sex-wise but injections. Sober or drunk he manages to make a good stab at it. (Do you see what I did there? Comedy gold, I tells you).
This has been going on for over a week and I have a rump so tender it’d make wagyu beef weep with jealousy. As a result if I am lying on the bed reading (or more likely playing an iPhone game) I now favour lying on my front. I may as well paint a big target on my bum, it has seemingly become irresistible to the husband who will come into the bedroom and gleefully pat out a rhythm on my behind before my shrieks remind him that it is a bruised posterior and he quickly retreats.
On Tuesday, the day before the embryo transfer, I treated myself and cashed in a voucher for a neck and shoulder massage. NECK and SHOULDER. So what does the masseuse do? Tells me she starts at the tail bone, whips down my pants and starts pummelling my buttocks like an over-enthusiastic baker.
I squeaked; “I’m quite bruised there please don’t do that.”
She paused, and I felt her eyes boring into my exposed cheek. “What is it?” She asked imagining (or so I imagined) some hard core S&M action (that phrase’ll do wonders for my google hits). “An injection” I mumble.
The rest of the massage was uneventful. At the end she said that she felt the lump but assumed it was a pulled muscle hence the special attention she’d given it.
I keep going with the injections until test day. A negative and I stop, a positive I keep going for another 8 weeks.
And much as I hate them I reckon you can guess which outcome I am hoping for.