Dear Metabolism: You Up?

Dear Metabolism,

It’s me. Your ex-bestie. Remember when I could crush a Big Mac, Cheeseburger and Cheeseburger Happy Meal, and still wake up with visible collarbones? Good times.

Now? I so much as think about a bagel and gain three pounds. Yesterday, I put on a “comfy” sweater and it fit like a sausage casing at a county fair. You used to be fast, hot, passionate. Now? You’re seasonally depressed, avoidant, and emotionally unavailable.

Are you ghosting me? Because that’s exactly what it feels like. Meanwhile, here’s how my life has been going:

Phase 1: Optimism & Delusion

I started strong. Made a smoothie. Did yoga. Even passed up the free office donuts. But you? No spark. No burn. No “wow, look at us!” Just… slow. Like a sloth on NyQuil.

Phase 2: Snack Spiral & Metabolic Silence

I tried moderation. One cookie. A small slice of cake. You took that and said, “Let’s store this for the famine of 2047.” Suddenly, my jeans filed a restraining order. My thighs threatened to unionize. And my chin? It multiplied!

Phase 3: Wine, Cheese & Emotional Collapse

I didn’t choose wine and cheese as my emotional support system. They chose me. It was either that or scream into my reusable shopping bags. I even tried bribing you with green juice, lemon water, chia seeds… but you stayed ghost. Like the Ghost of Metabolism Past.

Phase 4: Elastic Waistbands & Total Surrender

At this point, I’m fully living in sweatpants. There are snacks in the car, in the bedside drawer, behind the quinoa I keep pretending I’ll cook. I’m bloated, exhausted, and sustaining myself on a shame-based charcuterie diet of cheese, salami, crackers and grapes. And you? Still MIA. Not even a “Don’t be mad, but I might have slowed your digestion” breakup text.

So here’s the deal, Metabolism. I’m done chasing you. You clearly need space. And I need carbs. Maybe we’ll reconnect again in a few months, when I’m back to pretending to enjoy kale and Googling “Does laughing burn calories?” for the fifth time.

Until then, I’ll be in sweatpants, surviving one snack binge at a time. We had a good run. Literally. Remember running? That was fun. We were cute.

Thanks for the memories,

Your bloated, pajama-clad former BFF