Day 103: The Chronicles of JABatha vs. Monday: The Frozen Shoulder Edition

6 hours ago
4 min read

Ah, Day 103.

Otherwise known as: “Why am I awake at 5am when I could be a cat?”

After a gloriously lazy Sunday filled with Netflix marathons, cat cuddles that verged on emotional therapy, and zero ambition to do anything productive, my Monday morning self was not thriving. When the alarm went off at 5, I had an out-of-body experience.

I could see myself in bed, wrapped up like a burrito of denial, muttering, “No. Absolutely not.”

But in a true Jabatha Christie style, I rose from the ashes of my duvet, dragged my half-conscious self into the shower, and reminded myself that this is adulthood - nobody’s coming to rescue you, and the bills won’t pay themselves.

Fed the cats first, because obviously their needs rank higher than mine. They glared at me like I was late for a Michelin-star breakfast service.

Boyfriend was still suffering from Saturday Night Choices™ - self-inflicted and absolutely zero sympathy from me.

If you play with fire (and tequila), you get burned.

I left him to his hangover and drove to the station, yawning like I was auditioning for The Walking Dead: Office Edition.

Before entering the corporate battlefield, I grabbed my essentials:

Triple shot oat flat white – because single or double shot coffee is for people who still believe in hope.

Triple bacon ciabatta – because protein equals power, and I needed both.

Yes, food noise was very loud that morning.

My stomach was staging a protest.

Arrived at the office and, as always, turned on the lights because apparently that’s my entire career now - Chief Lumination Officer of the Banking Floor. A noble calling.

Then… chaos.

Banking life.

Emails exploding, Teams messages pinging, everyone talking about “synergies” and “deadlines,” and me pretending to care while trying not to bite into my monitor out of stress.

My ADHD brain was in full Cirque du Soleil mode:

I had 75 tabs open, 9 frozen, 2 playing mysterious background music, and no idea which one was making the “ding” noise. Honestly, my brain and Chrome are in a toxic relationship. They both crash regularly and require constant updates.

By lunchtime, I decided to treat myself - or so I thought.

I went to Birley’s and got soup.

I should’ve known it was a mistake when it looked like beige sadness in a cup. One spoon in, I realised it tasted like wet cardboard that had lost the will to live.

Ate a third, purely out of spite, then gave up.

Not a happy bunny.

The afternoon blurred into spreadsheets, phone calls, and an internal monologue that sounded like: “I could’ve been a barista in Bali right now.”

Then I had to leave early to see a specialist about my still-annoying arm. Lovely orthopaedic surgeon - the kind who smiles like he’s seen too many skeletons and not enough holidays.

We did an X-ray on the spot.

Diagnosis: suspected frozen shoulder.

Oh fantastic. I’m officially falling apart like a cheap IKEA wardrobe.

He referred me for an MRI tomorrow and mentioned a possible steroid injection. I nodded like a brave soldier but inside I was screaming, “Why, Lord, why?!”

Is this what 48 does to you?!

Because let me tell you - 48 is like the halfway house between “I can still party” and “I need to Google what that popping sound was.”

Here’s the current 48-year-old body status report:

Knees crack like glow sticks.

Shoulder frozen like it’s auditioning for Frozen 3: Elsa’s Orthopaedic Journey.

Eyesight that randomly decides to stop working mid-text.

A metabolism that’s now solar-powered - only functions in sunlight.

A back that throws tantrums for simply existing.

Honestly, if I sneeze wrong at this point, I’ll need a chiropractor, a priest, and a week off.

Anyway, after my grand diagnosis, I took the earlier train home - which felt like winning the lottery - until I had to drive.

Rant time.

Buckle up.

Why can’t people drive?!

It’s like some folks get their licence from a cereal box.

No indicators.

Random braking.

Tailgating.

Drifting across lanes like they’re in Fast & Furious: Suburban Edition.

One guy nearly took out a cyclist because he was too busy picking his nose!

And then there was my personal favourite - the guy who decided to sit right on my bumper all the way from the station.

He was practically in my boot.

I could’ve charged him rent.

I was already going slightly over the limit (shhhh), but clearly that wasn’t fast enough for Mr. Testosterone in a hatchback.

He finally overtook me on a bend, nearly went head-on with another car, and I just thought - “There goes someone auditioning for the next NHS organ donor campaign.”

Truly, a hero.

Someone, somewhere, will get a new kidney thanks to his complete idiocy.

Rant officially over. (For now.)

Got home, inhaled two small slices of leftover pizza because, as we’ve learned, pizza cures everything.

Watched the last of Swedish Love Is Blind - which, let me tell you, is like watching IKEA assemble emotional damage - and finally crawled into bed.

Another 5am start tomorrow. Pray for me, Jabbers.

Goodnight from your favourite semi-frozen, caffeine-fueled, bacon-powered detective of life.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

Ah, Day 103.

Otherwise known as: “Why am I awake at 5am when I could be a cat?”

After a gloriously lazy Sunday filled with Netflix marathons, cat cuddles that verged on emotional therapy, and zero ambition to do anything productive, my Monday morning self was not thriving. When the alarm went off at 5, I had an out-of-body experience.

I could see myself in bed, wrapped up like a burrito of denial, muttering, “No. Absolutely not.”

But in a true Jabatha Christie style, I rose from the ashes of my duvet, dragged my half-conscious self into the shower, and reminded myself that this is adulthood - nobody’s coming to rescue you, and the bills won’t pay themselves.

Fed the cats first, because obviously their needs rank higher than mine. They glared at me like I was late for a Michelin-star breakfast service.

Boyfriend was still suffering from Saturday Night Choices™ - self-inflicted and absolutely zero sympathy from me.

If you play with fire (and tequila), you get burned.

I left him to his hangover and drove to the station, yawning like I was auditioning for The Walking Dead: Office Edition.

Before entering the corporate battlefield, I grabbed my essentials:

Triple shot oat flat white – because single or double shot coffee is for people who still believe in hope.

Triple bacon ciabatta – because protein equals power, and I needed both.

Yes, food noise was very loud that morning.

My stomach was staging a protest.

Arrived at the office and, as always, turned on the lights because apparently that’s my entire career now - Chief Lumination Officer of the Banking Floor. A noble calling.

Then… chaos.

Banking life.

Emails exploding, Teams messages pinging, everyone talking about “synergies” and “deadlines,” and me pretending to care while trying not to bite into my monitor out of stress.

My ADHD brain was in full Cirque du Soleil mode:

I had 75 tabs open, 9 frozen, 2 playing mysterious background music, and no idea which one was making the “ding” noise. Honestly, my brain and Chrome are in a toxic relationship. They both crash regularly and require constant updates.

By lunchtime, I decided to treat myself - or so I thought.

I went to Birley’s and got soup.

I should’ve known it was a mistake when it looked like beige sadness in a cup. One spoon in, I realised it tasted like wet cardboard that had lost the will to live.

Ate a third, purely out of spite, then gave up.

Not a happy bunny.

The afternoon blurred into spreadsheets, phone calls, and an internal monologue that sounded like: “I could’ve been a barista in Bali right now.”

Then I had to leave early to see a specialist about my still-annoying arm. Lovely orthopaedic surgeon - the kind who smiles like he’s seen too many skeletons and not enough holidays.

We did an X-ray on the spot.

Diagnosis: suspected frozen shoulder.

Oh fantastic. I’m officially falling apart like a cheap IKEA wardrobe.

He referred me for an MRI tomorrow and mentioned a possible steroid injection. I nodded like a brave soldier but inside I was screaming, “Why, Lord, why?!”

Is this what 48 does to you?!

Because let me tell you - 48 is like the halfway house between “I can still party” and “I need to Google what that popping sound was.”

Here’s the current 48-year-old body status report:

Knees crack like glow sticks.

Shoulder frozen like it’s auditioning for Frozen 3: Elsa’s Orthopaedic Journey.

Eyesight that randomly decides to stop working mid-text.

A metabolism that’s now solar-powered - only functions in sunlight.

A back that throws tantrums for simply existing.

Honestly, if I sneeze wrong at this point, I’ll need a chiropractor, a priest, and a week off.

Anyway, after my grand diagnosis, I took the earlier train home - which felt like winning the lottery - until I had to drive.

Rant time.

Buckle up.

Why can’t people drive?!

It’s like some folks get their licence from a cereal box.

No indicators.

Random braking.

Tailgating.

Drifting across lanes like they’re in Fast & Furious: Suburban Edition.

One guy nearly took out a cyclist because he was too busy picking his nose!

And then there was my personal favourite - the guy who decided to sit right on my bumper all the way from the station.

He was practically in my boot.

I could’ve charged him rent.

I was already going slightly over the limit (shhhh), but clearly that wasn’t fast enough for Mr. Testosterone in a hatchback.

He finally overtook me on a bend, nearly went head-on with another car, and I just thought - “There goes someone auditioning for the next NHS organ donor campaign.”

Truly, a hero.

Someone, somewhere, will get a new kidney thanks to his complete idiocy.

Rant officially over. (For now.)

Got home, inhaled two small slices of leftover pizza because, as we’ve learned, pizza cures everything.

Watched the last of Swedish Love Is Blind - which, let me tell you, is like watching IKEA assemble emotional damage - and finally crawled into bed.

Another 5am start tomorrow. Pray for me, Jabbers.

Goodnight from your favourite semi-frozen, caffeine-fueled, bacon-powered detective of life.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

Comments