Week 10 Weigh-in - dose 7.5mg

The Case of the Disappearing Pounds

Ladies, gents, and fellow detectives in the true crime meets true carbs universe, gather round: we’ve cracked another case!

This week’s weigh-in has revealed a most delightful plot twist - I’m officially down 3.3lbs this week, bringing the grand total to 21.6lbs (that’s 9.8kg, for those who live in countries where distances are measured in cups of tea and not miles to the nearest McDonald’s).

Let me translate that into things we can all understand, because numbers alone are boring and I, for one, require drama:

The Missing Objects File – A.k.a. What I’ve Lost So Far:

• 1 fully stuffed Ryanair carry-on suitcase with a broken wheel and 0% chance of fitting in the overhead locker.

• 43 blocks of butter (if you see me buying butter in bulk, mind your business).

• A small but exceptionally moody housecat that only purrs when sitting directly on your laptop.

• The combined weight of 172 croissants (which I’d much prefer to find than lose, but alas).

• 1 fully grown toddler - the kind that screams the entire way through your flight and kicks your seat.

• 29 bottles of wine - (don’t panic, I haven’t lost the wine, just the equivalent in weight… priorities).

• A microwave. Just imagine lugging that around everywhere you go and then suddenly putting it down. That’s me, ten weeks in.

• A collection of regrets, mostly centered around tequila shots.

• An entire pug in a Christmas sweater.

• The lingering shame of that one time I ate an entire pizza meant for four people.

Not bad for just ten weeks of meandering through this Mounjaro journey while powered almost exclusively by collagen coffee, sarcasm, and blind hope.

But let’s not sugar-coat it (I wouldn’t know what sugar tastes like anymore anyway): the nausea is still lingering like an uninvited party guest who refuses to leave.

Honestly, I’m starting to think it’s less about the medication and more about my ongoing gastroparesis saga. If there were a medical Oscar for “Best Leading Role in Fatigue & Digestive Drama,” my body would be sweeping awards season.

I am tired. Constantly tired. The kind of tired where you can sleep 10 hours, wake up, look around, and think, “Yeah, I could do another 10.” I’m basically one soft blanket and a heating pad away from becoming a full-time Victorian fainting lady.

But here’s the thing: even through the nausea, the exhaustion, and the occasional 3am cat butt to the face, the numbers don’t lie.

I am shrinking - slowly, sassily, stubbornly.

And I’ll take it.

Because every pound gone is one less suitcase I have to drag up the stairs of life.

One less microwave I need to carry around.

One less toddler clinging to my leg.

Next milestone: 25lbs down. At which point I’ll probably compare it to a Shetland pony or a suspiciously large IKEA flat-pack.

Stay tuned.

Until then, I remain your ever-faithful chronicler of carbs denied and pounds misplaced.

With Love,

JABatha Christie