Week 5 Weigh-in - dose 5mg

Aug 21
2 min read

Week 5 Weigh-In: Pounds on the Run, Hot Water Bottles in Tow

Dear readers, brace yourselves.

Today I stood before the scales – that unfeeling, cold, digital tyrant – and waited for my weekly judgement.

Would it whisper sweet encouragement, or scream betrayal in numbers?

It whispered… victory. 2.2lbs lighter.

That’s 14.3lbs gone forever, exiled from my body like traitorous cousins at a wedding who stole all the good snacks.

Let’s pause for a moment and consider what this actually means:

That’s roughly the weight of a very small turkey.

Or an actual bowling ball that could have ruined my carpet if dropped.

Or one cat. Yes.

A very judgmental cat, who now looks at me like “Finally… I can actually get on the sofa without squeezing past that extra fluff.”

I imagine my ex-pounds somewhere in a sad support group, moaning about their eviction:

“Remember when we lived on her hips? We had power, we had influence, we had… warmth!”

Another groans: “Until she brought in that pen, and Mounjaro, and kale smoothies. Absolute betrayal.”

And oh, they are bitter. Deliciously bitter. I will savour this.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, my daily life is quietly, yet dramatically, improving:

My jeans have applied for early retirement.

They keep sliding down when I walk, demanding a severance package.

My bras have started whispering to each other: “Less heavy lifting today, thank goodness.”

I float out of the bathroom after weigh-ins like a Victoria’s Secret angel… if said angel had dark circles, a messy bun, a hot water bottle named Mustard, and the emotional fragility of someone who just realised salad isn’t pizza.

Speaking of Mustard – bless that little feline-shaped hot water bottle – it has been my loyal sidekick this week.

Curled up beside me, offering warmth and silent judgement in equal measure. I imagine it saying:

“Another 2.2lbs gone? Well done. Now let’s see how long you can keep this up before carbs try to seduce you into betrayal again.”

The real drama, of course, is the psychological warfare.

Every morning I whisper to the scales:

“Don’t fail me now, digital overlord. I have invested emotional capital, a moderate amount of caffeine, and sheer stubbornness in your accuracy.”

And every morning, the scales nod – or maybe that’s just my reflection in their shiny, judgmental surface.

But let’s not forget the other cast of characters: my ex-pounds, my cats, Mustard, the scales… even my own reflection, which is now slightly less surprised to see me in the mirror.

They all play their part in this ongoing saga of loss, drama, and occasional triumph.

So here we are, dear readers:

Week 5.

Pounds evicted, spirits high, sass level: untouchable. I have survived another seven days of salad, self-restraint, and minor mental breakdowns while imagining my ex-pounds sulking in exile.

Week 5 Weigh-In: Pounds on the Run, Hot Water Bottles in Tow

Dear readers, brace yourselves.

Today I stood before the scales – that unfeeling, cold, digital tyrant – and waited for my weekly judgement.

Would it whisper sweet encouragement, or scream betrayal in numbers?

It whispered… victory. 2.2lbs lighter.

That’s 14.3lbs gone forever, exiled from my body like traitorous cousins at a wedding who stole all the good snacks.

Let’s pause for a moment and consider what this actually means:

That’s roughly the weight of a very small turkey.

Or an actual bowling ball that could have ruined my carpet if dropped.

Or one cat. Yes.

A very judgmental cat, who now looks at me like “Finally… I can actually get on the sofa without squeezing past that extra fluff.”

I imagine my ex-pounds somewhere in a sad support group, moaning about their eviction:

“Remember when we lived on her hips? We had power, we had influence, we had… warmth!”

Another groans: “Until she brought in that pen, and Mounjaro, and kale smoothies. Absolute betrayal.”

And oh, they are bitter. Deliciously bitter. I will savour this.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, my daily life is quietly, yet dramatically, improving:

My jeans have applied for early retirement.

They keep sliding down when I walk, demanding a severance package.

My bras have started whispering to each other: “Less heavy lifting today, thank goodness.”

I float out of the bathroom after weigh-ins like a Victoria’s Secret angel… if said angel had dark circles, a messy bun, a hot water bottle named Mustard, and the emotional fragility of someone who just realised salad isn’t pizza.

Speaking of Mustard – bless that little feline-shaped hot water bottle – it has been my loyal sidekick this week.

Curled up beside me, offering warmth and silent judgement in equal measure. I imagine it saying:

“Another 2.2lbs gone? Well done. Now let’s see how long you can keep this up before carbs try to seduce you into betrayal again.”

The real drama, of course, is the psychological warfare.

Every morning I whisper to the scales:

“Don’t fail me now, digital overlord. I have invested emotional capital, a moderate amount of caffeine, and sheer stubbornness in your accuracy.”

And every morning, the scales nod – or maybe that’s just my reflection in their shiny, judgmental surface.

But let’s not forget the other cast of characters: my ex-pounds, my cats, Mustard, the scales… even my own reflection, which is now slightly less surprised to see me in the mirror.

They all play their part in this ongoing saga of loss, drama, and occasional triumph.

So here we are, dear readers:

Week 5.

Pounds evicted, spirits high, sass level: untouchable. I have survived another seven days of salad, self-restraint, and minor mental breakdowns while imagining my ex-pounds sulking in exile.

Will next week bring further victories?

Will my jeans finally stage a full rebellion?

Will Mustard demand a pay rise for emotional support?

Only time will tell.

Until then, I remain: dramatically deflating.

With Love,

JABatha Christie

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