So Friday was spent for the most part in pain, hazily thinking of my seemingly unattainable gold blinkini. But I also sorted out something one needs to do these days when one gets into a relationship that is anticipated to be long-term.
Firstly, I am back on oestrogen. Not an oral pill, but the patch. The latest, greatest thing since the loop, or so I’m told. It doesn’t make you fat or moody and is 99% effective against pregnancy. Because you stick the patch on your bottom (it looks like a plaster, which may take the romanticism out of doggy style…and I say that tongue and cheek of course), the hormones don’t pass through your liver. So you don’t put on weight, it doesn’t help skin problems, but is easier and less symptomatic than the pill. The pill can make one a psycho bitch from hell, for the record.
I haven’t been on oral contraceptives for almost 18 months now. And initially I hated the fact I had to go on them again. But the patch, called Evra, seems like a miracle product. Also, vomiting and diarrhoea (not that girls get this, ever), and some antibiotics don’t affect it.
I change it once a week, it doesn’t come off in water and I don’t need to remember to take a pill at the same time everyday.
Shameful puntage over. For now.
Because after two days of having this thing adhered to my bottom, yesterday I felt very flat. Perhaps it’s my body having to get used to high-dosage female sex hormones being pumped into it again. I woke at 3:30am, after attending Smoking Legs’ end-of-year work bash, and started crying. I was alone thank heavens, and for the most part of Sunday morning I felt very depressed. I wasn't anyhing I could put my finger on – I mean, I’m deliriously happy right now – so let’s hope my ass gets used to the oestrogen patch fairly quickly.
More hectically, Smoking Legs and I did the sensible thing, which couples should be doing these days before loss-ing the condoms: We went for an HIV test.
Together. At Milpark Hospital. It was a bonding sesh such that I’ve never had before. I’m highly strung when it comes to needles, and this was just epic. He held my hand throughout the process.
Now I didn’t think I have AIDS for a second, I’m very vigilant when protection is concerned, mainly because some of my boyfriends have put their totty’s in many a questionably-tainted crevice that I don’t care to know about, or imagine what venereal nasties have passed betwixtthen.
But can I just say what a knife edge I was on for those 24 hours until we got the results. What if? What if? (I drank quite a bit of wine with C on Friday to counteract the nerves).
I’ve never had an HIV test before, and it’s nerve wracking, let me just tell you. Needles and tubes of blood aside – it’s the waiting that’s the worst.
Smoking Legs and I have obviously been sensible and careful in our past sexual endeavours, and we’re clear. Clear to shtoink without worry now, anyway.
So excited was I, the doctor at Milpark got a massive hug and I shouted: Yay! We’re free! (To boof wherever, whenever! But I didn’t say that.)
She just laughed and said, “Have fun kids.”
Oh, we will.
More worrisome however was the conversation I had with mum:
Peas: I’m getting tested for HIV today. I’m shitting myself.
Mum: Well you’ve used protection haven’t you? Just how many people have you slept with Peas?
Peas: I am choosing right now to ignore your last question, but yes I’ve used protection.
Mum: Then you should be fine. I was shitting myself too.
Peas: When did you get a test?
Mum: For insurance purposes a while back. And since your dad left eight years ago Peas, I haven’t exactly been an angel, especially that one time…
Peas: Eew, enough Mum! OK, I geddit.