Oh my god – this is like living a bad soap .

So get this – cardiology wanted my weight, before I’m admitted to the hospital, and naturally, I was thrilled—because nothing says “great day” like confronting the scale.

I step on, and this traitorous piece of tech has the nerve to talk. “Hello,” it says, as if we’re besties, and then it drops the number like it’s announcing the winning Powerball. 🥴

I hear the number and immediately lose my mind: 11 pounds? In 10 days?! What is this—science fiction?! Cue my brain sprinting straight to worst-case scenario: I’m in heart failure. This is how it ends. Death by numbers on a scale. I’m frantically examining my hands and ankles like a detective at a crime scene—no swelling, no clues. Just existential dread.  and I know it’s curtains for me. I just know it.

And then I look down. And guess who I spy – Jane. My cat. Casually perched on the scale like she’s auditioning for a role in “Sabotage: The Musical.”

“Jane, what the hell are you doing? Get off mommy’s scale before I die for real.” She just stares at me, all smug, and says, “Meow meow meow,” which I’m 99% sure translates to, “This is the most fun I’ve had in years.”

So I shoo her off, reset the scale, step back on—and guess what? I’m actually down 12.2 pounds. And my weight loss is because while I haven’t been eating very much in the past 10 days due to this whole heart thing.

Turns out I’m not in heart failure; I’m just being psychologically tortured by a cat.

Thanks, Jane. Glad you’re living your best life while I’m out here preparing for the Grim Reaper. Classic.