Well, well, well… look who’s back on the scales, still clinging to life despite a fortnight of viruses, nausea, Dioralyte cocktails, and a protein bowl diet that could qualify me for sainthood.
Down another 2lbs.
That’s 16.3lbs (or 7.4kg for my European fans) of fat, fluff, and general jiggle evicted from my body.
Do I feel like a goddess? No.
I feel like a damp tissue that’s been kicked around a bus stop.
But a lighter damp tissue.
Highlights of the week:
Ate a single bagel thin and treated it like a five-course tasting menu.
Rediscovered soup. It’s basically hot juice, but at this point, I’ll take it.
Realised that viruses apparently work as very aggressive personal trainers. No gym needed – just a week in bed hallucinating about Stranger Things.
Lowlights:
Still awaiting the constipation plot twist. Send prayers (and prunes).
Tried to celebrate my tiny appetite return with wine. Immediate regret.
Was bullied into bed rest by my cats via their secret “meow chat.”
So yes, I may still feel like I’ve been steamrolled by germs, but the scales don’t lie – the pounds are fleeing me like my will to live during a spin class.
Next goal: survive without catching another virus and maybe, just maybe, eat more than half a fish finger sandwich.
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