I just ate eleven-day-old raw pastry dough.

I don’t really know if I should be proud of my iron stomach for being able to keep the slightly-greying solid goop down for the past seven minutes. In any instance, it’s a mildly impressive feat. It’s like being able to insert a USB right the first go or having multiple novelty ice cube trays – the level of impressiveness on par with weak country-school-bulk-sized-water-bottle cordial. In the time it took me to think of the liquid equivalent of “whelmed”, I still haven’t violently ejected the buttery mass from my body. I kind of feel like I could do anything but I also feel like I’m one cereal dinner away from becoming a novelty-nightie-wearing ball of “how the fuck did I become this?!”.

I’ve been living alone for less than three solid days and I’ve already reached this point. I can’t wait to see what I’m like by Day Fifteen.

But I can already tell where this is headed, and it’s absolutely going to be well and truly within the first ten minutes of Bridget Jones’ Diary territory. And not just because it’s near Christmas time and I have an obsession for stationery that is matched only by my unfaltering reverence for my own thoughts, but because I have a DVD in my collection that both scares and delights me.

It’s called Celine.

I found it in the “true stories” section at Civic Video (yeah, I live in a magical place that still supports a thriving DVD rental shop) while browsing on Sunday night. I was feeling a little down, you see, and whenever I’m in my darkest days I turn to movies starring Nicole Kidman that critics would rather eat the physical copies of the remaining DVDs than watch again. My go-to movies Stepford Wives and Bewitched are both remakes staring the Australian goddess, and both are motion pictures I find rather fabulous (I don’t know who these critics are, but if they don’t approve of Bette Midler being snarky about pinecones or an engrossing scene about self-wiring VCRs, then I don’t know if I can back their opinions). But because I started the Is She Kidmanning Me?! movie marathon nice and early, I had to dash out to get another title. First on my list was Grace of Monaco, because of all the headlines cleverly referencing the Oscar winner’s fall from Grace. I couldn’t find it in the new release section, so my next bet was the “true stories” shelf (which was silly, in retrospect – having watched the movie I can say with confidence that it definitely didn’t belong in that section as there was absolutely no evidence the “story” element required to be sorted in such a category).

As I walked up to the shelf, my eyes were instantly drawn to a blue DVD cover with a poorly-etched photo of a woman with a microphone haphazardly laid over blurry picture of a stage. There were backlights drawn on with the same graphic detail as Mario Kart for a Nintendo 64. There was a PG rating sticker telling me to expect mild themes. The fancy cursive writing told me the title, but it was two decks of capital letters at the top of the cover that told me I was in for a magical experience: THE FULL LENGTH FEATURE FILM ON THE EXTRAORDINARY LIFE OF CELINE DION.

Obviously I couldn’t walk past something like that.

But I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch it yet. Partly because of time restraints (I’m a career woman, after all) and partly because I’m not sure if I’ll be mocking it or enjoying it. There’s a very fine line between the two, and I really don’t want to fall on the wrong side of said line. The last thing I want to do is find inspiration in the French-Canadian songstress’ story. As someone who regularly imagines themselves being interviewed by the likes of Oprah, I would hate to have to sit on that yellow couch and tell the Queen of Television the reason I climbed that mountain/opened my own porridge and scone café/started an online jewellery business making friendship bracelets out of my own hair was because Celine made me believe. If Oprah asked me where my success came from, I’d have to reference the movie. I’m a terrible liar at the best of times, and you just don’t tell a furphy to the woman who called out Lindsay Lohan on her shit. “After sobbing on the couch for 4.56 days, I was so touched by Celine’s dramatized story that I realised I could be my own strength when I was weak, Oprah. I mean, after I waded out of a sea of tissues and empty wine bottles and blinked into the natural light, I realised I could be my voice when I couldn’t speak – I had my love, I had it all. So I became a wellness blogger.”

Five weeks ago I would have never dreamed of saving a hardened ball of butter, flour and sugar for a well-earned treat, and here I am telling myself this current satisfaction is worth salmonella poisoning. So I think it’s a legitimate fear that I may become emotionally attached to the life story of the powerhouse behind My Heart Will Go On. Even my deep-seeded cynicism and relationship-killing sarcasm is no match for the Sin curve of feelings that is It’s All Coming Back To Me. That song is like the audio equivalent of Julie Bishop’s icy glare – it’s powerful and frightening and tunnels right through your composed exterior to your weak, unworthy core. You can’t help but be shaken by it. And so I worry that now, as a woman living alone, Celine’s story will seep into my soul and colour my every move for the rest of my life.

Maybe I am living in fear. Maybe I don’t want to be the girl living alone, thinking of all the friends she’s known, watching Celine Dion blossom into stardom. Unfortunately there’s no turning back. I’ll face another $1 late fee if I don’t return this by Sunday, and I’ll be damned if I pay good money for a weekly rental without watching it.

Anyway, this 1000 word rant is really just an obscenely long teaser to tell you (yes, I mean YOU, my two treasured readers) to expect a review of Celine: A true story form rags to riches in the coming days. Have your emotions ready.