I took myself out for breakfast the other day, and spent the whole time texting.

And no, I wasn’t texting a bunch of flakey friends who weren’t turning up or a steamy love interest. I was texting myself.

Since I am a woman and have an ABN, I am technically a businesswoman. And I decided to do what businesswomen do: have a working breakfast. They get things done while breaking the fast. They order coffees and set up their laptops and wear power suits with badarse nonchalance.

So I decided to be one of those women.

Unfortunately I was without a laptop. I had no manila folders. I was wearing my workout gear instead of a tailored blazer. And I also can’t handle coffee (last time I had it, it gave me the actual jitters – it was just before I was about to hop on a plane too, and looking skittish at an airport tends to make security staff think you’re smuggling things in your butt).

But I was determined to make this a “work thing”. Not only because it took away the awkwardness that for some reason seems to be attached around a person eating alone, but because I’ve become a fiend for wanting to get tax write offs. I’m a very by the book person, so I’m going to go to an actual media accountant this year and see what I can claw back from the government. I have a fairly limited understanding of the federal tax system, but in my head, things I write about can also be write-offs. By that logic, if I were to write about my breakfast, I could write it off.

So I preceded to text myself – something that I find actually quite useful for stringing together blog posts and columns when I have jack shit to write about. So here are the messages I sent myself:

I have just finished a jog and promptly celebrated by taking myself out to a nice breakfast at the fancier of the cafes at the park.

And I feel like everyone knows my hoodie was bought as part of a costume for a hen’s party sports day (that, admittedly never happened because we were all too hungover to move and ended up getting tie dyed shirts at the markets instead)

I wonder if I would have felt different if I had have worn my UQ hoodie – because despite how scummy I may be, at least people would know that I at least went to a university long enough to purchase branded goods.

Also, I would like to point out that I am currently wearing Lorna Jane running shorts. If that doesn’t qualify me to turn up to fancy cafes to spend far too much money on granola and green drinks, I really don’t know what will.

And yes, I know have been a bit anti-active-wear-with-inspirational-slogans in the past, but my college merch ruggers had been worn down so much that there were holes big enough to shove a newborn piglet through on the inner thighs. I wanted to keep running to achieve what a dear friend of mine of would call a “fergilicious” bod, so I had to invest in other shorts.

And maybe I’ve been in NSW too long but ever since I read Lorna was all “fuck everyone, I’m keepin’ my office in Brisbane and you can all go to buggery” (NOTE: that’s how I imagined it going down, so it could have possibly been a slightly less bogan statement), I’ve warmed to her a little bit.

I have a newfound respect for someone who chooses industrial Brisbane over the wankery of Sydney. I mean, I’ll still continue wearing the free shirts I got from bars while I exercise, but she’s alright hey.

Back to breakfast. I just finished my granola which for some reason came with a panacotta – in case you didn’t already know this place was fancy as fuck.

This is where my texts to myself stopped, because I became too distracted by Instagram.

I had taken a photo of my meal after I used the leftover milk from my pot of tea to pour on my granola. I am trying to take more photos to use as visual aids to explain my life to my parents, plus I also thought I could make a good Insty post about it. My caption would have read something along the lines of: “another positive of enjoying my tea as dark as my soul is being able to use your leftover milk for oat soaking purposes”.

However, I didn’t want to give this place the satisfaction of knowing that I’d grammed their food, so instead I posted something about a bunch of geese I nearly ran into.

After I’d posted the geese photos (it was actually a very moving series of images that told an emotive story using carefully-planned compositions), I became acutely aware of how much of this meal I had spent on my phone. I then became aware how it would have looked like I was extremely uncomfortable dining out by myself and was compensating by texting – or, even worse, pretending to text people. I didn’t want these people to think I cared about what they thought. I wanted them to think I was an independent, self-assured woman who could confidently eat alone if she damned well wanted to.

And yes, I see the irony in wanting people to think that you don’t care what they think and actively modifying your behaviour to give someone the impression that you’re not doing anything to impress them, but that’s just the way it is. And maybe me admitting to it so openly means I really don’t care what people think..?

But I digress, I realised I was texting too much, looked too nervous and then put my phone down to “be mindful” and “take it all in”. At least, that’s what I hoped it looked like I was doing.

Anyway.

Long story short is that I asked for the receipt upon paying and plan on taking it to my accountant, arguing that it was a work expense and subtracting the cost of my douchey muesli from my financial contribution to building this country.