Eight cycles...wow, that's a long time. It's not hitting me quite as hard as seven did, though. When we began this cycle, I was focused on the fact that we'd passed out of Toni Weschler's certified "trouble-free" zone; that is to say, the four to six months that a healthy, fertile couple should need to get pregnant if they are following fertile signs and properly timing intercourse. After this time, Ms. Weschler states, we should probably seek medical help.

That time has gone and past, so I'm taking action. Our health insurance doesn't cover one bit of infertility treatment, so I'm exploring other, and probably more obvious, avenues first. The most obvious thing to start with is, for me, a full insulin resistance check.

Diabetes runs through my family like wildfire. My father has it. Both of my great grandparents had it. My grandfather battles with low blood sugar; my other grandfather was never checked for diabetes, but my mother can now remember many symptoms that seem to indicate the fact that he, too, probably had it. Then there's the fact that I'm not a small person. On all the risk charts, I place well into the category of "Run, do not walk, to your doctor for a diabetes check." I've had Eric test my blood sugar with his meter several times, and all the results have been normal, but I'm thinking that perhaps a full Hemoglobin A1C check is probably in order.

Why should this matter to fertility? Well, the same insulin resistance that is a factor in diabetes can also be linked to another problem: Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. To make a long story short, the body, due to insulin-related problems, doesn't ovulate well, so the eggs that mature but don't release eventually form cysts. There's a ton of symptoms to look for, but from what women who have the syndrome have told me, this is one of those diseases which can manifest with all, some, or none of the usual symptoms. I believe that I'm ovulating, but medical science would not refer to my cycles as "regular"; in the past seven months, they've ranged from 28 days to 40 days. I think I'd rather be safe than sorry, so I'm making an appointment to see Eric's doctor as soon as possible.

Last night I went out to Media Play and selected my drill sergeants. I started by picking a yoga tape, which was rather difficult, since everybody, his brother, and Dixie Carter has begun marketing these things. Rodney Lee looked the least "peppy," so he found his way into my basket.

I had many a laugh searching for a good cardiovascular workout cassette. This one had me shuddering. Eric had me a bit nervous with his warnings of unresearched and potentially dangerous workout routines, and I wasn't sure what criterion was proper for selecting a safe one. I'm almost positive that it wasn't the one I used; I picked Gay Gasper mostly for her wonderfully semi-pornographic sounding name. I just hope that the military "boot camp" isn't too annoyingly pervasive, though I'm not holding my breath.

My last purchase was a guilty luxury. When I was in high school, I used to turn on ESPN every weekday afternoon during the summer and exercise along with "Bodies in Motion" with Gilad Janklowicz. His thick, unidentifiable accent made him ever so attractive to me, and I battled my way through workout after workout just for the pleasure of gazing into his eyes. Imagine my delight when I found him just sitting on the shelf, waiting for me to pick him up and buy him! Gilad, the mornings will be ours.

This is my army. This is the crew that I'll be facing at least three times a week for as long as it takes to get me back into shape. Eric says he might try to get up early and join me, but I know full well that if he does join in, it will be as a spectator only, witness to my pain and agony, and too smug to even get me a drink or a towel. He's just that sweet in the morning.

Eric comes into the room from his shower. He begins to laugh. I glare up at him from my very shaky Downward-Facing Dog, which only makes him laugh harder.

"Exhale into Full Front Bend."
"Yeow! Slow down, Rodney! I think I missed an inhale."

"Inhale into Back Bend."
"Okay, I got that one."

"Namaste."
"Uh-oh, he always seems to say that right before..."

"Bring your left leg forward and exhale into Proud Warrior."

Eric is still laughing, almost doing a Full Front Bend with his need for air. I can't quite seem to stand up myself; I blame my lack of balance on the fact that I'm not wearing my glasses. Though I can't seem to sustain any of the poses, I've managed to work up a rather good sweat trying. Rodney doesn't appear to be exerting any energy at all, except to remind me to breathe. I think that's the only part I've gotten right.

As I attempt to drop back to the Downward-Facing Dog, Eric walks over and pokes at my upraised rear quarters. Structural integrity almost fails completely.

"Namaste."
"Shut up, Rodney!"

Oh, this is going to be a long, long summer.