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In fifth grade, I went through what you would call my "awkward" phase.

I was at a new school, with new braces that were zig-zagged across my teeth (no one warns you that the yellow bands just make your teeth look perpetually un-brushed), and I was a bit of a tomboy. I wore a lot of red and navy. That phase was a struggle.

But eventually, I started to make friends, the braces got a little straighter, and by junior high they were off completely. Things were good. I got a little less awkward, I learned about bras and shaving, and I started finding my own style. I was on a competitive year-round swim team where I met great friends and stayed in mostly decent shape through my high school years.

Senior year hit, though, and that awkwardness started creeping its uninvited self back in. I was putting on the pounds like I was on some sort of mission. I also had acne galore and accidentally bleached my eyebrows orange by using my zit cream too close to the hair. My brother called me "orange brow" for six months. For a 17-year-old girl, it was an upsetting time. I visited doctor after doctor. Most of them were jerks of the highest form who told me I was eating too much. Some listened, but had no answers. Then I learned my awkward phase of plumpness and acne had a name.

I was diagnosed with PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome) at the ripe 'ol age of 17. My ovaries were pissed off, causing my hormones to go wonky, causing me to gain weight and have some accelerated hair growth (yay!). I got put on birth control and Metformin (helps regulate blood glucose), and after a couple of months the weight started coming off. I thought to myself, "This is fine, totally manageable. These two magic pills keep me skinny!" Clearly my younger self was a bit too concerned with appearance. I stayed on this course of treatment, enjoyed college, graduated, joined the working class and eventually got married. My PCOS was always somewhat at the back of my mind, but mostly forgotten about.

Over the course of our relationship and marriage, I put some of that unwanted weight back on. I didn't think much about it, I was in love and happy. People always warn you about those "love pounds." You start mirroring your husband's eating habits, and before you know it, you are eating just as much as him. Or is that just me? It wasn't until this year when we started trying for a baby that my somewhat forgotten PCOS came front and center. I've come to find out that I have dysfunctional lady bits. That's what I am calling my blasted cyst-covered ovaries. Long story short, I have had so many up-the-hootie ultrasounds that I am practically glowing, and the hormones I have been on make me an exceptionally pleasant person. Just ask my husband.

Now all of the struggle, the emotions, the tests, that's all fine and dandy. I mean some days it's not. Some days I feel like nursing a case of wine and a pan of brownies. Infertility is a real bitch. But for the most part, we have kept our humor.

So it pains me to say that about a week ago, I had a meltdown. Not over the fact that we still aren't pregnant, and not over the fact that the husband and I don't always agree on our next plan of action. Nope. My meltdown came as I was in the car, driving to book club. It started out as a good day. I showered, shaved my legs, ate healthy, and was spending the evening with friends. But then, at a stop light, I look up at the rear-view mirror and the sun hits my mustache just right. Wait, rewind, what? Yes, my mustache. I had realized that the hormones caused me to gain weight. And I was irritable. I thought that was all par for the course. But a mustache?? That took it too far. I had now entered the worst awkward phase of my life thus far. I called my mom in a panic and the conversation went something like this:

"Mom, I am regressing. You're supposed to have your awkward phase as a child, and I already had one of those. I'm going backward."

"Now, Kelly, calm down, it's okay."

"HOW IS THIS OKAY?? My lady bits don't work, I weigh as much as a small man, and now I have a MUSTACHE!"

"Kelly, I'm sure it's not that bad. You're beautiful."

"You have to say that, you're my mother."

My poor mama. Always there with a listening ear and comforting words for her dramatic daughter. So, that is where I am at. Awkward phase number three. Having discovered said mustache, I did what any normal woman would do. I had my sister wax it with a home waxing kit while I sat in a chair in her kitchen. It hurt, and now my lip is broken out, but I won the mustache battle (or so I keep telling myself). I am not sure how long awkward phase number three is planning to hang around. Hopefully not too long.

And please, dear Lord, let there not be a number four.

- Kelly Marks

Kelly Marks is a pediatric nurse living in Texas with her husband and their Great Dane, Gus. Kelly blogs at wifelifeandbooks.com where you can find her sarcastic (and sometimes serious) take on life. She loves books, wine and chocolate. Her doctor recently told her she has to adopt a gluten-free lifestyle, so she now loves wine even more.