One, two, three...

I started Weight Watchers again on Tuesday.

I say again because in June when I started my regular treks to the fertility clinic for poking, prodding and other exciting indignities, I kind of gave up on counting the point value of every morsel I put in my mouth.

I needed chocolate and I needed it bad. And I didn't need the hassle of figuring out if half a Hershey bar was two points or three - or if I had enough flex points left to eat an entire package of four.

I've managed to keep off most of the 35 pounds I lost (save four playful pounds I've been yo-yoing since I quit in June), and while I've been pretty pleased with that achievement, I feel that old January need to get back on the horse and try again. With gusto.

Since you're wondering (as am I), I'm not totally sure if this means I've ditched the fertility clinic for point counting or not. I can't seem to do both at once so we'll have to see which one wins out in the end.

One makes me feel very, very good (albeit very, very hungry). The other, because it's a constant reminder that my body is old and busted, makes me feel very, very bad. One might help us have a baby. The other might help me fit into a decent pair of jeans. One forces me to eat my fruits and vegetables. The other forces me to submit to having my my hoo-ha prodded to within an inch of its life while I'm hopped up on drugs that make me feel utterly insane.

It's a tough call. Sanity versus family.

I don't know. I just don't know. If anyone is interested in making this decision for me, please feel free.

I've grown very weary of being a grown-up. If you need me I'll be in the closet eating a mixing bowl full of sugar free Jell-o and weeping.