Day 63: Ruby's Podcast, Bacon Bagel Love, And The Great Two-Jumper Mystery

Oh hello, my lovely chaos companions - welcome to Day 63, otherwise known as the day I proved I am both hopelessly romantic and mildly insane (in the best possible way).

Buckle up.

There is bacon.

There is podcasting cat behaviour.

There is soup.

And there is the eternal question: is it cold, or is it the jab?

Spoiler: nobody knows, not even Mounjaro.

I slept like a baby last night.

Proper, honest, drift-off-delicious sleep… until Ruby, who apparently thinks she’s a podcaster for BBC Mischief, decided 5:54am was the ideal time to begin a rambling monologue and also plant her entire posterior on my nearly-asleep face. Nothing wakes you up like a warm cat butt inches from your nostrils and the dulcet tones of “meep—meep—meep.”

Thank you, Ruby.

You are a creature of charm and also subtle assault.

Because I am a saint (or sorely misguided), at 6:30am I got up and made a bacon bagel for my better half. Yes, that’s right - a bacon bagel at 6:30am.

Is he insane?

Am I insane?

It must be love.

Who eats a bacon bagel that early?

People in love, apparently.

Or people with an iron constitution and no sense of timing.

I stood there flipping bacon like some kind of romantic chef, thinking, this is my life now.

He left for work, bagel in hand and heart warmed.

I went back to bed like the diva I am, content that I had fulfilled my domestic goddess quota for the week.

Work was from home today - logged in with the usual morning ritual: coffee + collagen. The elixir that says “I mean business” while also whispering “but first, moisturise my joints.”

I sipped with purpose.

I answered emails with grace.

I pretended that the pyjamas-to-meeting aesthetic was a deliberate sartorial choice and not just laziness in fancy lighting.

All day I was freezing.

Freezing to my core.

I alternated between thinking it’s actually autumn teleporting in early and blaming the jab effects.

Two jumpers became one too many, but then I put on a second jumper because survival.

Two jumpers says “I have my life together,” while also yelling “my thermostat is broken.”

I honestly don’t know whether it’s menopause, Mounjaro, or the Universe trolling me, but I have been wearing two jumpers for most of the day and I look both cosy and slightly heroic.

AND - here’s the plot twist - food thoughts.

Again.

Why.

I have been thinking about food more than usually.

What is happening?

I have ordered another month of the 7.5 dose because nausea has been an annoying companion, but in the quiet of my brain there’s a little voice whispering: maybe you should have upped to 10???

Now that is dangerous thinking, my loves.

Dangerous.

I shall not make dosing decisions by interpretive dance and rogue hunger pangs.

That said, even my sensible brain is confused. I’m keeping all the medical decisions in the actual medical lane - but the internal monologue is loud.

For breakfast (or mid-morning edible identity crisis), I treated myself to a small thin protein bagel - the kind of thing that pretends to be fun but is basically cardboard with aspiration.

I added some truffle Boursin because even cardboard deserves to be glamorous. It was yummy (yes, the truffle-scented happiness was real) but honestly I couldn’t have eaten more.

That’s my stomach’s current vibe: “some, but not many.

Graceful portioning only.”

Work zoomed by - busy days are my friends.

No lunch (imagine my shock), but I decided to do an early dinner around 3pm - a strategic 2-in-1 move.

I raided the freezer in a moment of indecisive culinary panic and settled on butternut squash soup with tofu from the fridge. Somehow, adding tofu made the soup feel like a protein power move, like I’d tucked a tiny gym membership into my bowl.

It was comforting, warm, and no nausea in sight.

I felt like a soup queen.

We must celebrate the small victories.

I’ve booked a pub lunch/dinner for Sunday - proper roast hope! I am low-key certain Mr will go for a full-blown roast beast situation while I will try to be sensible and order a starter.

Alas, the children’s menu is no longer my playground unless I rock up with pigtails and a gingham dress and successfully convince someone I am 7. Best to keep the pretzel hair idea in my back pocket for now.

After soup triumphs and a few more hours of work, I logged off with a spring in my slightly-jabbed step.

Office tomorrow - and I’ll be wearing my new, smaller clothes.

Emotionally committed.

Alarm set for 5am because when you have clothes that fit better, you get up earlier for reasons that are both noble and terrifying.

Who even am I?

Now let’s address the scale. I weigh every day (yes, I know, many people tut and say “don’t do that,” but I like data).

For the past week I’ve been dancing up and down by 2 lbs.

One day I’m on top of the world, the next day I’m convinced gravity has it in for me.

Am I at a plateau?

I only started 7.5 last week!

I need to shift another 20 lbs (yes, twenty - not twenty pence), so come on Mounjaro, give me a little help.

Not thrilled about these fluctuations - not a happy bunny - but optimistic. Determined.

Slightly dramatic.

All the usual.

Trashy TV tonight: edited MasterChef (I am a glutton for punishment - I love torturing myself with delicious food I cannot emotionally consume).

Still zero feelings.

I watched soufflés rise and fell, and I felt nothing except admiration and a strong desire to buy a whisk.

Oh! Village drama today. Loads of it. Proper curtain-twitching fodder. But I’m sworn to secrecy because a girl’s got standards and secrets, and I’m the unofficial archivist of village gossip.

I can say only this: if the village had a soap opera, it would be very well written and poorly acted.

I’ll keep my binoculars on standby.

So that’s Day 63 in all its chilly, truffle-scented, bacon-bagel-powered glory. Positive?

Yes.

Hilarious? Hopefully.

Entertaining? I hope so - I’m providing full-service entertainment: cat butt comedy, early-morning domestic heroism, protein-based culinary adventures, clothing-based optimism, and some low-level existential scale angst just for dramatic seasoning.

Night, my fellow jabbers and gentle chaos curators.

May your coffee be hot, your bagels be buttery, your jumpers be cosy, and your food noise be manageable.

See you tomorrow for weigh-in drama, jabbing, puffy-sleeved outfits, and possibly more village secrets.

JABatha (professional bacon-flipper, part-time soup queen, full-time curtain twitcher)

With Love,

JABatha Christie