Week 11 Weigh-in - dose 7.5mg

The Plot Thickens (or Should I Say Thins?)

Ladies, gents, and fellow carb detectives – welcome to Episode 77 of CSI: My Waistline.

This morning, I stepped onto the scales with the grace of a ballerina and the fear of someone about to find out if her Amazon “one size fits all” leggings will still be gaslighting her.

Spoiler alert: THEY FIT BETTER.

This week’s verdict:

Another 2.2 lbs down (that’s a sassy little 23.8 lbs total / 10.8 kgs, if you like your misery in metric).

Now, if this were an Agatha Christie novel, the butler would have been guilty by now. But in my story, the only thing guilty is my stomach for thinking a single bread roll is a “light snack.”

Honestly, if bagels had alibis, mine would already be behind bars.

Let me paint the scene: it’s 5am, Ruby the Serial Purrer has once again pinned me down with her 5kg of fluff and industrial-strength purring.

I wake up half-dazed, convinced I’ve booked myself into a spa offering “feline ASMR therapy.”

Then it hits me – weigh-in day.

Do I pee twice for maximum effect?

Do I exhale dramatically like I’m auditioning for Les Mis?

YES and YES.

And there it was… the scale blinking back at me like it had just witnessed something shocking:

“Girl, you’ve actually lost weight again.”

Cue dramatic organ music.

23.8 lbs gone. Do you know what that is? That’s:

Almost the weight of my suitcase when I pretend I’ll “pack light.”

10.8 kilos of emotional baggage dumped straight into the void.

Two and a bit bowling balls.

I repeat: I’ve basically bowled my fat out of existence.

The best part? My clothes are starting to betray me in the opposite direction. Jeans that once screamed for mercy now hang around like they’ve lost the will to live.

My belts? I’m punching new holes like I’m some sort of deranged medieval leatherworker.

But here’s the kicker – weight loss isn’t glamorous.

Oh no. I still wake up retching like I’m auditioning for the role of “background zombie” in The Walking Dead.

I still have to dodge colleagues in the office who wave pastries at me like evil fairies offering poisoned apples.

And don’t even start me on the Protein Bar Mafia who insist theirs “taste just like Mars bars.”

No Sharon, they taste like regret and chalk dust.

Still, progress is progress – and I’ll take every ounce.

Week 11 and I’m officially in that stage where people start whispering, “Have you lost weight?” (to which I reply dramatically, “NO – I’ve lost AN ENTIRE SMALL HUMAN HEAD”).

So here I am, 23.8 lbs lighter, still sassy, still standing, and still trying to figure out how to celebrate without undoing it all with a croissant the size of my face.

Watch this space for next week – will I keep losing, plateau dramatically, or solve the mystery of why my cat insists on showing me her butt at 3am?

Stay tuned. Same time, same scales, hopefully less of me every week.

With Love,

JABatha Christie