Shot Day: The Least Fun Game I Play Every Week
The shot.
I hate shot day.
Every week I play the same little game with myself.
Should I give myself another day?
After all, I’m doing great. I’m not hungry. I’m practically a poster child for self-control. And honestly… who needs another hole in their hide?
If my body had a suggestion box, it would definitely say:
“Please stop stabbing us.”
The truth is the shot makes me feel sad. Nauseous. A little depressed.
For the first few days it feels like someone turned the color down on the whole world. Like life is happening in slightly sad black and white while everyone else is still in full HD.
My energy disappears.
My mood disappears.
Even my personality takes a brief vacation.
And if you know me, a quiet Bri is a suspicious Bri.
How people celebrate this medical miracle I will never fully understand.
Yes, I’m grateful.
But celebrate?
No.
I’m not popping champagne over here.
I’m more like, “Well… guess we’re doing this again.”
Because honestly, it kind of sucks.
But then…
The scale moves.
And suddenly I’m thrilled again.
I watch the numbers drop like they’re little trophies. Tiny victories. Proof that the suffering was not in vain.
And then the dreaming starts.
Dreaming about bikinis.
About shorts.
About pulling those little XS tags out of the back of my closet like archaeological artifacts.
“Look at this,” I’ll say.
“Apparently at one point in history… I was tiny.”
And suddenly shot day doesn’t seem quite so terrible.
Not because it’s fun.
But because it’s working.
So every week I argue with myself, sigh dramatically, and pick up the pen like a reluctant warrior.
Because while my appetite may be getting smaller…
My personality?
Still A Bri Too Much.