There are two kinds of doctors in the infertility world. Those who prescribe oral progesterone supplements. And those who want you to put progesterone up your hooha. Okay, so there are actually waaaay more kinds of doctors than that in the infertility world. But roll with me here for a moment.

I have previously seen the second kind of doctor. The pill-up-the-hooha kind. But lately, I’ve been instructed to take my progesterone supplements orally since it acts as a natural anti-inflammatory, and my immune system is a blazing, sweltering fire that won’t go out.

Throw progesterone up your hooha, and the side effects are pretty minimal. Sure, there’s extreme constipation and a constant wet and nasty discharge in the underpants. But compared to all the other side effects of drugs us reproductively challenged ladies have to deal with (um, extreme hot flashes, stabbing ovaries, and a condition that’s actually called moon face) it’s a walk in the barren park.

Taking progesterone orally is a slightly different story. The bottle says “may cause dizziness or drowsiness. Do not operate heavy machinery.” However, what it should say is “this is going to make you higher than that one crazy night out on your college dorm balcony. Do not attempt conversation within four hours of taking.”

In short, oral progesterone makes me high. I mean bat shit crazy, elephants on the ceiling, wonderfully high. A high unlike any high I’ve ever had. Not that I’ve had very many, because I’m a good girl, people. For about 45 minutes, I feel like the prettiest, most intellectually stimulating person in the long, dark tunnel we’re all suddenly floating down. And it’s awesome.

I never know quite when it is going to hit me. Sometimes it’s 30 minutes after a dose. Sometimes it’s not until 3 hours after a dose. And every luteal phase, I take two doses a day. Which makes mornings at work interesting.

Especially one particular morning two weeks ago when I was getting ready to present to a room full of 60 people, right as the progesterone kicked in.

My colleagues and I were pitching a new and large account for our advertising agency, and I had a significant portion of the presentation to talk through creative strategy and branding. Typically, this is the sort of thing that I can pretty much wing once I think through a few talking points. But typically, I’m also not high.

Right as my colleague introduced me and handed me the clip-on microphone and clicker, I started to feel that oh so familiar feeling floating through my body. Okay, I thought, so…this is happening. Or did I say it? Was that how I just opened up my section of the presentation? I wasn’t 100% sure. But I kept going.

Next came the challenge of talking while clipping the microphone to the collar of my dress while also managing not to drop the clicker or a stray f-bomb. And…I nailed it. Again, I have no idea if I said that I nailed it. Or just thought it.

My voice boomed; in the microphone, through my head, it was crawling up the walls and enveloping the room in a giant shriek. Quick, I thought, I need to re-clip this microphone closer to my boob so I’m not all blare-y. Again, coulda thought it. Coulda said it. To this day, I just don’t know.

The rest was a sort of out-of-body experience. I said stuff, I clicked, I pointed to visuals on slides. I stood upright. I kept my clothes on. These are the things I know. Everything else, I couldn’t tell you.

But I do know that in the last two weeks, nobody at work has said a word to me about that presentation. Which is probably a good thing, as it was hopefully just like any other presentation I’ve given. Or, it’s a bad thing, because they’re all secretly whispering about that time I stood up and let out monotone humming sounds for 15 minutes straight.

And there is one other thing I know for sure. Along this crazy road of injections and infusions and inseminations and negative pregnancy tests and stabbing ovaries and things called moon face, I’ll take all the little highs I can get.