Well, you didn't have to eat the roof. You could, I suppose, just rip it off. But I was upset for all the reasons I've mentioned, and red meat was the final straw.

See, not only did I have a steak on the grill, I'd had a steak on the grill almost every day for the past year. I'd gone from my highest weight ever to my lowest ever on a doctor-supervised "eating plan," which was really a "not eating plan." I got only two meals a day, three ounces of protein per meal, so I decided my protein would be filet mignon whenever possible.

My plan was to lose weight until I got pregnant (it's supposedly healthier to get pregnant at a lower weight), but since it was taking so long to get pregnant, I ate a lot of red meat, and I lost a lot of weight. Fifty pounds, to be exact.

For the first time ever, I felt like someone who belonged in L.A. I bought a pair of skinny jeans and strutted my significantly smaller stuff down Robertson Boulevard. I felt, in a word, fabulous. So fabulous, in fact, it took me a while to notice that I wasn't getting my period. And not for the reason I'd been hoping.

As depressing as it is to get your period each month when you're trying to get pregnant, it's nothing compared with not getting your period for five months when you're trying to get pregnant.

So although I loved my skinny jeans, I didn't love them enough to give up having a baby, and I still don't think it's fair that that might be the price I have to pay for wearing them. (I thought $178 was expensive!) It's like I made a deal with the skinny devil.

I did finally get my period back once I went off my not eating plan, which I did with the gusto of someone who's been told to gain weight for a role. And also thanks to Dr. Dao at Tao of Wellness (a center for Chinese medicine), who suggested electroacupuncture to jump-start my ovaries, which, I'm not kidding, involved tiny little spark plugs that attached to needles in my stomach and caused a zap zap zap sensation.

There was a control that changed the speed and intensity of the zap zap zap, and usually Dr. Dao would set the dial, but once he left me alone with it and let me control it, and that's when I wondered if maybe I was in some sort of cruel medical experiment where they try to figure out how far a woman will go to have a baby. Will she stand on her head? Lose 50 pounds? Blow up her ovaries? Keep turning it up until…poof!

Because, really, how much disappointment can one woman take? How many times can you be hopeful when odds are you're going to get sucker punched by your period or a negative pregnancy test or something else you never saw coming? And yet you can't stress about that, because stress is the worst thing for fertility.

I know, by the way, that once you have a baby, this all gets put behind you. I know the end of this movie. I don't know where or when or how. We've discussed donor eggs, but I don't really like guests in my house, so in my womb—I don't know.

But that's the point. You don't know. You don't know what dream you'll be willing to abandon and what dream you'll be willing to adopt. You only know that once you have your baby, the movie will be rewritten so that that is the only possible ending, the only baby for you, and for now, you're just slogging your way through the second act.

Which you have to do, I guess. As in any worthwhile endeavor, you have to go through the hard, unsavory part before you get to the good stuff.

You have to eat the roof before you can eat the door.

Cindy Chupack is the author of The Between Boyfriends Book (St. Martin's Griffin).


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