Week 13 Weigh-in - dose 7.5mg

The Scale Betrayal Chronicles

My darling Jabbers, gather round.

I have news. Grim, unjust, soul-crushing news.

After a week of saintly behaviour - salads, water, not even sniffing a biscuit - I stepped on the scales this morning and… nothing.

Not an ounce.

Not a gram.

Not even the faint suggestion of a wobble in the right direction.

The number glared back at me, smug and unchanging, as if to say, “Cute try, darling. But no.”

Now, I know, I know - “weight loss isn’t linear,” “your body’s adjusting,” “muscle weighs more than fat,” etc., etc.

But tell that to the woman who’s been weighing cherry tomatoes and googling the caloric content of toothpaste just in case.

The betrayal stings.

Especially after the week I’ve had - turning down cake in the office (“No thanks, I’m full of air and dreams”), taking the stairs like an Olympian, and heroically surviving an entire Tesco trip without buying crisps.

That level of discipline should come with a medal - or at least a slightly smaller bum.

And yet… here I am.

Exactly the same weight as last week.

Now, I did consider having a small tantrum.

Perhaps launching the scales out the window and letting them live free in the wild, where they can torment someone else.

But after a brief sulk (and one dramatic lie-down), I realised something: the scale doesn’t get to tell the full story.

Because yes, the number didn’t change - but I have.

My clothes are looser, my energy’s better, my cheekbones are starting to send out postcards, and my mirror reflection is no longer someone I side-eye suspiciously in the morning.

Progress isn’t always in pounds - sometimes it’s in posture, mood, and how many times you have to yank your jeans up in the middle of Tesco.

So, my fellow Jabbers, today’s lesson is this: the scale is a sassy little liar. Sometimes she’s generous, sometimes she’s cruel, and sometimes she’s clearly on holiday.

But she’s not the whole picture.

I’ll keep going - eating the veggies, doing the walks, whispering threats to my bathroom scale under my breath.

Because the real victory isn’t the number - it’s the fact that I’m still showing up, still laughing, and still (mostly) resisting the siren song of the biscuit tin.

Next week, we move.

Preferably downwards.

But either way - we move.

With Love,

JABatha Christie