Day 92: The Calm Before the Demogorgon

A JABatha Christie Original: Thursday, Sponsored by Fatigue, Felines, and Fear of Coldwater.

My darling Jabbers, we’ve made it to Day 92.

Ninety-two whole days of jabs, naps, soup, and the occasional near-death experience with carpet vomit.

And speaking of carpets - you’ll be delighted to know that there was no sick today! A small victory in the household, as I awoke to Ruby’s usual 5am Podcast of Chaos (working title: Purring, Shuffling, and Random Headbutts: The Feline Awakening).

I’d actually slept well for once - a solid 7-hour slumber that felt like winning the sleep lottery. And yet… when my alarm went off, my entire body whispered: “No.” This week has absolutely knackered me. Like, full-on knackered. I felt like I’d done a triathlon through treacle while carrying two cats and a PowerPoint deck.

Thankfully, I was working from home again.

Which, as we all know, means the “commute” is approximately 14 steps from the bed to the kettle, with one detour via existential dread.

Morning routine: dragged myself downstairs, brewed my lovely coffee (aka life support in liquid form), mixed in my collagen like the glowing wellness influencer I pretend to be, and went back upstairs to finish my presentation. My slides were giving strong “corporate sparkle meets mild despair” energy - a perfect summary of Q4, really.

Then came breakfast: two small slices of sourdough with some ham. Gourmet, no?

Most importantly - no retching!

We love a drama-free digestive tract.

Back to work I went, pretending to be a fully functional adult while in reality I was Googling “how to stay awake during Teams calls without resorting to witchcraft.”

Lunch: veggie soup.

Half of it, anyway.

I felt slightly nauseous afterwards (classic Mounjaro plot twist), but still - no retching!

We are two-for-two, baby.

Meanwhile, Molly was in full attention-seeking mode, swanning around like a tiny fluffy duchess demanding affection now. She’s honestly so affectionate lately that I’m half convinced she’s plotting something. Probably a coup against Ruby for “Head Cat of Household.”

And Ruby - sweet Ruby - even popped in mid-meeting to say hello and scratch the carpet with purpose. I assume it’s her way of contributing to the household chores.

By 2pm, my eyelids weighed roughly the same as a bowling ball.

I could not, under any circumstances, keep my eyes open.

Was it the soup?

The jab hangover from last week?

The sheer existential fatigue of adulthood?

Who knows.

Either way, I powered through with all the enthusiasm of a nap-deprived sloth.

Then - the highlight of my day: tomorrow I am OFF.

Yes, OFF.

No Teams calls, no KPIs, no corporate buzzwords.

Just joy as my amazing boyfriend whisking me off to London for my birthday treat.

We’re going to see Stranger Things: The First Shadow - the stage prequel to the show that has utterly consumed my personality since 2016.

And then dinner, if I can eat after today's jab...

I cannot express my excitement in normal human language.

I am obsessed.

I’ve already planned my outfit and my emergency Demogorgon survival strategy.

If Vecna tries anything mid-show, I’m ready.

I’ve watched enough Eleven scenes to know how to channel my inner telekinetic queen.

Anyway, at 3pm - jab time!

My weekly flirtation with side effects.

I gave myself the jab and waited to see if The Rash (my arch-nemesis) would make an appearance.

No rash yet, but I suspect it’s lying in wait, plotting its comeback tour.

Dinner time rolled around, and despite being utterly exhausted, I cooked a lovely steak for my Mr. because I am, as we know, the picture of domestic goddess energy.

Obviously, I stole a tiny bite - for scientific purposes.

Delicious.

And then - we settled in to continue watching Coldwater.

My God.

This show.

It’s like if Stranger Things had a creepy lovechild with The Blair Witch Project and sent it to boarding school in purgatory.

The tension!

The darkness!

The inexplicable water metaphors!

Every episode gets stranger (and colder) and I find myself clutching a blanket, whispering “WHAT IS HAPPENING?!” while simultaneously refusing to look away.

You know it’s a good show when your cat is staring at the TV with her tail puffed up like a chimney brush.

Ruby legit jumped at one of the scenes - and I’m convinced she saw something I didn’t.

If I vanish mysteriously mid-series, please assume I was pulled into the Upside Down.

Oh! Nearly forgot - in a moment of bravery (or madness), I ordered the GlycanAge Biological Age Blood Test.

Yep.

Apparently, it will tell me how old I really am and how inflamed my body is. Which is… both intriguing and terrifying.

I’m fully expecting the results to say:

“Dear JABatha, biologically speaking, you are 74. Please hydrate.”

And finally - the dreaded weekly weigh-in.

No movement.

Nada.

Not even 0.1lb.

The scales stood there mocking me like an ungrateful tin robot.

But do you know what?

That’s okay.

We’re playing the long game.

Besides, if Stranger Things has taught me anything, it’s that progress isn’t linear - sometimes you have to go through the Upside Down to come out stronger.

So, here I am: jab done, steak stolen, Coldwater creeping me out, cats content, and me counting down the hours till London, love, and a full dose of nostalgia-fuelled theatre magic.

Goodnight, my lovely Jabbers.

May your soup stay down, your cats stay calm, and your rashes stay away.

Over and out from your sleepy heroine.

With Love,

JABatha Christie