Day 79: Friday: The BMI Blunder, the Bingo, and the Butt Blanket

Slept like an absolute baby, with the chunky feline butt of Ruby the Purring Machine firmly planted on my chest.

Honestly, if there were an Olympic event for “feline smothering during REM cycles,” she’d bring home the gold. But I can’t complain - her 6am ASMR purring sessions have replaced my meditation app.

Om… and meow.

Worked from home today, which meant no 5am alarm, no wrestling my hair into something “corporate,” and no pretending to be human before sunrise.

Bliss!

Work itself was bonkers - everyone seemed to have booked simultaneous meltdowns - but caffeine was my emotional support animal.

Speaking of caffeine, something weird has happened to me.

Coffee used to be my personality trait.

I’d drink it like an Olympic sport - triple-shot dopamine in a mug, thanks to my ADHD.

But ever since Mounjaro entered my life, my ADHD and OCD are… tamed. Who even am I?!

I can’t even finish one coffee now.

I stare at it halfway through like, “Sorry, babe, it’s not you - it’s serotonin regulation.”

Breakfast was a delightful slice of soda bread toast with orange marmalade - and get this - NO retching!

I nearly cried into my butter knife.

Lunch/dinner (because who needs labels?) was chicken with salad, and again, no nausea.

I think 7.5mg and I are finally in a stable relationship.

We’ve been through a lot together - ups, downs, burps, and rashes - but I think we’ve found our rhythm.

I’m staying on this dose another four weeks.

I’m not ready for 10mg.

My stomach isn’t either.

Now, about that rash.

The injection site’s doing its thing again.

Third time, same drama, but less red, less raised, less itchy - kind of like the “Budget Version” of previous breakouts.

Still annoying, but progress is progress.

I really need to jab somewhere else next time.

Maybe my stomach.

Maybe the cat can choose.

Then, during my lunch break - a moment of pure self-sabotage - I decided to check my BMI.

And dear Lord, what an emotional rollercoaster that was.

Let’s discuss the audacity of this so-called health metric. BMI, a number invented in the 1830s by a Belgian mathematician named Adolphe Quetelet (who, might I remind you, had zero medical qualifications and probably wore one of those top hats you could store snacks in).

He created it as a statistical observation, not a health tool - and yet here we are, nearly 200 years later, letting his ancient maths ruin our mornings.

BMI has one job: divide your weight by your height squared, then act smug about it.

That’s it.

It doesn’t know your age, your bone density, your muscle mass, your genetics, your hormonal profile, your relationship with sourdough, or the fact that you once danced to “Pump Up the Jam” with a Prosecco in each hand.

No.

t just coldly declares: “You’re overweight.”

Still!

Excuse me?

Overweight where?

Have you seen my calves?

My sense of humour?

My fabulousness?

BMI is basically that passive-aggressive colleague who says, “You look tired,” when you’ve just spent two hours on your hair and makeup.

It doesn’t care about context.

And here’s the kicker - if Beyoncé, Serena Williams, or The Rock popped into a GP surgery tomorrow, they’d all be told they’re “overweight.” Meanwhile, Nigel from HR, who hasn’t eaten a vegetable since 2012 but is built like a breadstick, gets a gold star for being “healthy.”

How is that science?!

It’s like judging a Michelin-star meal purely by its calorie count.

“Oh, this truffle risotto is 700 calories?

Straight to the bin!”

NO.

Food - and bodies - are not binary.

And don’t even get me started on how BMI ignores ethnicity, gender, and body composition.

It’s one-size-fits-NONE.

My curves aren’t a calculation error, they’re an architectural feature.

BMI also doesn’t measure mental health, energy levels, strength, or confidence.

It doesn’t know how far I’ve come - the nausea battles, the mental rewiring, the confidence slowly creeping back in.

It just looks at two numbers and goes, “Nah.”

Well, nah to you too, Adolphe.

You and your dodgy maths can jog on.

So yes, I hereby declare: BMI is rubbish.

Utter nonsense.

I’m measuring my progress by laughter, sleep quality, how I feel in my clothes, and how much energy I have to dance at cheeky bingo nights.

And right now? That score’s off the charts.

After wrapping up work and declaring an emotional victory over outdated Belgian equations, I jumped in the shower, scrubbed off the corporate chaos, threw on my best “pub chic” outfit, and got ready for some Friday fun - a cheeky bingo night with our friends at our almost local pub!

So I’m signing off now, dear Jabbers, as I prepare to swap spreadsheets for sound systems and step counts for dance moves.

The night ahead promises laughter, chaos, and questionable dance routines - but more on that tomorrow.

For now, I leave you with this: may your scales be kind, your rashes calm, and your BMI mind its own business.

Oh and your bingo nights wildly inappropriate.

Now excuse me while I dance my collagen-infused butt off to “Pump Up the Jam.”

With Love,

JABatha Christie