You is your own worst enemy.

Pressure. David Bowie and Freddie Mercury wrote a song about being under it, and a friend of mine made a Facebook page about it being inside his undies (while the play on words was exceptional, I don’t really know if I liked the definition enough to recommend it to my friends). We’ve been taught that pressure plus time can create diamonds in the right circumstances, but in the wrong circumstances, all you get is wet pants (in case you were wondering what “Undie Pressure” was actually referring to).

There are lots of different kinds of pressure, such as water pressure or the force of a house brought in on a wind from Kansas landing on your torso (I went with a fictional case just to make sure I didn’t jinx myself – I don’t want to die alone in my own house crushed under a ten-year-old pile of stacked newspapers). And while both those kinds of pressure I was referring to can have pretty dramatic outcomes, there’s a another pressure that can produce outcomes that are also not agreeable but rarely involve death (let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, death isn’t the greatest outcome). It’s the kind of pressure that is maximised by the fact that it was applied by yourself. The pressure you put on yourself to achieve something; to make something of your pathetic snivelling self.

While a teacher, friend or inspirational fridge magnet may compel you to do something, the who whom hurts the most when that something wasn’t a thing is yourself. You can get a medi for your teacher, apologise to your friend and throw that smug piece of junk Lorna Jane fridge magnet (I don’t know if they do fridge magnets, but it would make sense because the fridge door is the gatekeeper of fattening food items, and a condescending message printed on a magnetic strip would be an excellent way to remind people to “never, ever, ever, ever, ever give up” on your diet.) But you can’t buy Yourself some “soz brah” frozen yoghurt and call it even, because Yourself is a dweller and holds grudges like you wouldn’t believe (except you would, because you know what You is like).

So when you set yourself a goal and fail to meet it, that hurts. You is reeling and you don’t know how to shut You up. You is so loud, You can’t hear yourself think! You doesn’t hear reasoning that the goal was pointless or that bung-knee is something to worry about or that Better Homes and Gardens had a helpful special on. You will keep reminding you that you didn’t do what was promised to You, no matter what reasons you come up with. This cycle gives you the gripes, but still you find yourself pledging things to Yourself. It might be conquering that pile of laundry, contacting your real estate agent, going to that gym class or responding to that letter. You tell yourself that you’ll do it, but the problem is that while you might have forgotten it during the day, You will remind you of it as the clock strikes bedtime, and you will feel the wrath of Your guilt.

This is something that usually happens on a Sunday. Because nothing has more promise at the beginning while proving to be a complete waste of time quite like a Sunday (well, except Adam Sandler’s recent movies – wow, I’m being mean tonight). The pressure of a Sunday goal can be heavier than a house that miraculously managed to stay in one piece despite being lifted miles into the air to be slammed down into another dimension/delusion – because you have nothing planned on that sacred Day of Rest-wear (because that’s the closest link I could get from “rest” to “pantlessness” or “pyjamas”) why the heck should you not achieve your goals?!

And so, you fall into a trap, because you might set yourself one Original Goal and then to take the pressure off that goal, you set a myriad of others so you’ll feel super accomplished, and if you didn’t happen to achieve the Original Goal, you have many other things to hang your hat on so You’ll take it better when you don’t achieve it. While you might think you’ve fooled Yourself into not caring about failing the Original Goal, You never forget, and You is a relentless bastard. You don’t care that you did the laundry, contacted the real estate agent, went to the gym or wrote that letter, because You knows what you didn’t do.

And You will punish yourself for it with weird stomach sensations and repeated vision of future you suffering from obscenely over-blown consequences as a result of failing to achieve the Original Goal. So eventually, You is so harsh on yourself that you give in, and do a laight-night slapdash job as accomplishing the Original Goal so you can go to bed. Because You don’t care if it was half-arsed, You just wants to tick off the first thing on the imaginary list so you can go to sleep.

Doing things alone can be intimidating.

Raising children solo might be tricky and by the way that bloody red hen was banging on about it, growing grain to make bread is pretty tough too, but nothing is so daunting as the prospect of going to the cinema alone.

For some reason, going to the movies has always been a social activity – because eating buttery cholesterol puffs while staring at a screen and not talking to the other person sounds like a pretty good way to get to know each other if you ask me. Movie theatres have always been pretty intimidating for me, which probably has a lot to do with the type of people who would hang out there in my golden adolescence. The cinema doors were also the main drop-off point for the shopping centre, so you had to face the dirty skegs every time you went “down town”. 13-year-old Dannielle would be just trying to get down to Supré for another raa raa skirt and these drongos would be sitting around with nothing better to do with their lives than stare you down. Turning up alone usually meant they would yell things at you. So the prospect of going to such an establishment alone has always been met with a certain level apprehension.

But on Sunday, I set myself a challenge. I dared myself to go to a movie alone. I’m not usually one for space movies that don’t have Bruce Willis in a starring role, but there was quite a bit of hype going on around one particular film, and even though I had no friends I could physically discus said film with, I do enjoy knowing that people are talking about on The Google. So I made the decision to get myself to a movie theatre and watch it. I never saw myself as the type to be so desperate to see a Matthew McConaughey movie that I would go it alone, but apparently that’s the reality I’m living in.

It’s a pretty big step in my life, so I wanted to document my experience. As always, I was slightly unorganised, and didn’t have time/couldn’t be arsed to log my thoughts before taking off, or to devise a clever way of recording my experiences. And because I was in a public place in which people are usually in groups, I decided to text myself. I’ve compiled those texts here.

There were certain times when I couldn’t actually text myself mostly because these movie people apparently frown on having bright lights while a motion feature is played. So I’ve also compiled the texts I would have sent myself.

My adventure begins when I step through the cinema doors, unflanked by the social weapons of plebs that make me look popular.

3.49pm buys ticket. Points out cashier’s Hunger games pin saying, “do you all have to wear that?” with a monotone delivery. Comes across much ruder than anticipated.

2.50pm the seat selection game begins. Scans theatre for less crowed rows of seats, taking care not to meet the gaze of friended-up movie-goers. Opts for the back row, reasoning that the back seat of a bus was the row for the cool kids and a theatre should be no different. Apparently no one in this town is cool, because the entire row is empty. Picks seat in the dead centre.

The actual (but somewhat doctored for reasons of literary consistency and humour) texts are as follows:

2.59pm opens pump bottle with mouth. Miraculously managed to spill water down tight cardigan sleeve and has to spit out the plastic cover on the sly. I’m undercover here, and I don’t want to attract attention.

3.01pm another lone ranger sits three seats away from me. The back seat is not longer the place for cool kids. Remembers that the back seat was filed with whackjobs in my high school years, such as the guy who would carry two pocket knives to cut holes into the seat where he would shove his Ritalin instead of taking it as prescribed.

3.02pm feels uncomfortable for texting while the obligatory “shut your phone off you bastard” ad plays. Hopes no one cottons on to the fact that I am actually texting myself.

3.06pm remembers the prunes consumed less than two hours ago.

This is the points when the lights darken and the movie begins.

Had I have been able to send texts to myself from my brain without going through the menial tasks of using my fingers and some form of technology, the rest of the afternoon would have unfolded like this:

3.40pm hears people chomping on popcorn, justifies that snacking is appropriate. Pulls one of the four stashed carrots from my handbag and attempts to take the stealthiest bite known to man, in an attempt to make it sound like I was also eating butter-covered slaty puffs.

3.41pm Bite sounds normal, subsequent chewing does not. Instantly recalls that time I was busted sneaking a carrot through security at the airport (I had a pair so scissors in my bag, so I had to go to the back of the line and remove it. When I went thought again, the cranky redhead said “I thought I told you to take all your lotion [my word, not his] out of your bag!” I then try to explain that I don’t have a plastic bag of lotion, while he says “hang on, is that a carrot in there?!” sparking a uproar of laughter amongst every airport staff in earshot, so loud my feeble attempts to defend myself with a “you know it’s a notorious snack” is barely audible.)

3.42pm swallows under-chewed raw vegetable so as not to disturb the other guests.

4.23pm gets a serious fright when something bangs (spoiler alert!) suddenly becomes aware of how alone I am as I try to compose myself.

5.49pm movie finishes, is glad that no one is around because said feature film packed too much into the last 20 minutes with cylindrical living pods completely unexplained, making any utterances in regards to the film quite silly sounding. Looks at coupled people below in attempt to gauge their response.

5.50pm Becomes aware of bros re-entering giggling consciousness, gets up to leave before said evolved males turn their laughter towards the sole sister a few seats away from them.

5.51pm avoids peeing in the cinema toilets to sot avoid the gaze of fellow female movie goers, who may have assumed I was merely putting on a brave face after being stood up rather than being an independent grown-up consumer of pop culture.

6pm nearly wets self fumbling with keys to get inside secure dwelling.

6.01pm realises that solo expedition resulted in neither being pointed at nor being asked when romantic partner was supposed to arrive nor having kids throw rocks. Deems expedition a success.

I’m not an expert on viewing motion pictures in a public place without a friendship group, but from my experience, it’s not too bad. Sure, it can be a little daunting and you may get a feel looks of pity because you didn’t bring someone with you, but then it’s the same story at family gatherings. I guess it kind of feels like when your butt’s a little sweaty and that dampness makes you second-guess whether or not the lining of your uterus has soaked through several layers of clothing – you think the stain of solitude is immediately identified by everyone within earshot, and everyone is whispering about why someone what deign to step foot outside in such a state. But in reality, it’s all in your head and everyone is too busy looking at their phones.

Fitting in is hard, particularly in a leotard.

The other day I went to a body step class. As one who usually restricts her athletic activity to the solitary anonymity of the treadmill line, participating in classes has been cause of apprehension in the past. But the body pump class (named that way because Les is really aiming for water cooler innuendo when you explain to your colleagues why your arse is so sore – I actually said I was “sore but satisfied” the other day) hadn’t ended in tragedy, so I thought branching out to something different would be a good idea – that and my headphones were shot and I couldn’t see myself lasting a significant period jogging to the Pitbull party tracks gym radios seem to blast at full volume.

I jumped on my step with high hopes and attempted to walk like the perky lady on the raise platform in front of me. Easier said than done. As the instructor added combos and step changes willy nilly (probably not willy nilly, but to me, that little shuffle came out of nowhere and had no business being in an exercise routine.) I thought that surely everyone else would be making the same faces as me. But, apparently I was alone in a room full of women.

I looked around and noticed it. They were subtle when roaming the wilderness alone, but when they were herded together in a grapevinning pack it became clear what I had stepped into.

The excellent posture was more than stern parenting. The flex-sneakers that meant you could point your toes and not slip across the floor was no coincidence. Neither was the way they could figure out how to get all the hair off their faces and still look feminine. They wore their work out gear with personality – they weren’t wearing the faded sports bra they’ve been rocking since high school, with three dollar five pack socks. They didn’t just throw any junk on to sweat in public. These girls had a workout wardrobe, with coordinating colours instead of multiple shades of “this will keep my boobs from looking like a pair of condoms half-filled with water” and “this will keep my stomach from looking like a lave lamp on the treadmill”. They had workoutfits, because they liked to look good while working out. Because that’s what dancers do. And I was in a room filled with dancers or ex-dancers.

Suddenly, I felt like the shorter, but probably just as heavy six-year-old dancer who had followed her sister to jazz-ballet classes. I couldn’t master the box-step or the grape vine and my shimmy was shithouse. And as one of the two chubbier girls who pranced about in what was essentially underwear, I felt a little out of place (particularly because the other girl could actually dance). I stuck out like the fat bulging out of my armpit over the slightly-too-tight leopard. Technically I am also an ex-dancer, but the extent of my prancing career was hardly glittering. My first year culminated in me skipping around in a circle then sitting down on-stage while wearing a red hessian sack. The second year saw me wear a black swimsuit and a straw tail while skipping around in a circle (again) and progress to turning my head in the same direction as a young Jonathon Taylor Thomas told me to. Now, most of my dancing incorporates heavy thrusting, squat-walks completed with a dash of some kind of fit. We were not of the same flock.

And it showed. While they leapt around their mini stages like fluoro-clad gazelles, I was more akin to the hippo floundering in in the mud. To make matters worse, I was wearing my black National tee shirt.

While my dress was now appropriate for my body type, I was that bulbous second armpit again. I have never had the urge to step ball change in my life, but suddenly I felt completely worthless because I couldn’t dance to the Rogue Traders’ Voodoo Child.

I usually try to wrap these little rants up with some kind of takeaway message as an end that justifies my meaningless existence, but I’ve reached my word limit and can’t seem to come to any profound conclusion. But I can leave you with this: if you’re trying to convince yourself that you weren’t that bad leaving a gym class don’t look the instructor in the eye, because that well-meaning “it gets easier!” remark can’t be pushed aside as easily as the undie-bit of your leotard when you need to pee.

There are certain types of lonely.

There’s the kind of lonely that a man who calls himself Akon forced a chipmunk to sing about and the kind of lonely that a marionette bearing a not-so coincidental resemblance to a certain former North Korean leader belted out in a miniature fortress. I fall into the middle-ground category, taking in aspects of both. Lonely because I don’t have my gurl (and by “gurl”, I mean “friends, acquaintances or even the last resort family members you talk to when there is literally no one else around”, and I also mean for you to say “girl” with a bit of urban sass) by my side (and by “by my side”, I mean “within a radius that would be reasonable for me to drive to”), and also lonely because there’s nobody I can relate to – e.i. no one to dress up as the golden snitch with. So my category can be best described as the “thinking that I may continue going to remedial massage sessions because it will help my neck pain, but mostly because the full hour of human contact should quench my thirst enough to prevent me to getting weird in normal interactions” kind.

Last Friday I had the realisation that it had been five weeks since I had had a hug. I’ve read that this kind of isolation is not healthy. A magazine told me that as we become more occupational health and safety obsessed and more likely to communicate via electronic means rather than in face-to-face fashion (social media is the devil), the human race is missing out on skin-on-skin contact, and like all modern developments (computers, televisions, even those fangdangle chairs everyone seems to have these days), it’s making us fat and depressed. And I don’t mean skin-on-skin in a dirty way (I immediately imagined an extreme close up of two hairless cats rubbing up against each other, with the pale pink, wrinkled, and oily-but-still-flaky skin of one cat slowly dragging along the skin of the other’s). Just things like patting someone on the arm or even as minor as brushing up against someone on your way past. I’m stretching my memory a bit here, but this longing for touch – be it erotic, platonic or accidental – leaves a gaping hole in our hearts which become filled with food and sad R&B songs played on a loop. So as much as we may think we thrive as queens of our own little frozen kingdoms of isolation, our pesky human needs get in the way of our broad-range people hating, meaning at some point we either have to give in to tenderness or pay someone to tie us up in leather and whip us.

However, I have neither the financial resources to pay for a dominatrix experience, nor the friend-ial recourses to. As such, I have a fear that I may, either consciously or subconsciously, take the human contact by force. Just as convicts may have stolen a loaf of bread to feed their starving families, I may resort to “running into” people to feed my starving touch-receptors. I’ve already stooped to the embarrassing low of spending my weekends hovering around department stores so the staff are forced to address me, so I think it’s fair to say the threat is imminent. It might start with an innocent graze as I breeze past someone, but it may escalate to tucking of a tag back in someone’s shirt on the street, and result in a bout of “surprise trust exercises” where I stand on high surfaces and chuckle gleefully as strangers scramble to catch me.

Worse still, I may resort to asking to spot bros at the gym. I mean, I was watching Dating Naked the other night and actually thought that sharing a quad bike with a sweaty chest-haired awkward man wouldn’t be the worse thing you cold do on reality television, so who knows how much this impact my perceptions of normal behaviour. As such, I have made a mental note to book that follow up remedial massage… and to look into how pricey one of those hairless cats would be.