Last night I went out to dinner with a friend and when we were done, I felt like staying out a little later. I ended up buying a movie ticket, but found I had about an hour to kill until it started.

So I did what anyone else would do: I sat myself down and had a second dessert… and texted myself.

I had some thoughts and I thought I’d record them. And because recording voice memos in the back of a café wouldn’t have been socially appropriate (and may have raised some suspicions among the patrons), I sent them via text.

Like, I fired them off to myself because I thought they’d make good fodder for a blog post and having them on hand would save me from having to think up something later tonight. And they have been very helpful.

But upon reflection and over-analysis, the texts are very telling.

Because it turns out that I can’t even take myself out for a nice evening without establishing that I’m a down-to-earth, humorous person or making it clear how unique and aloof of a character I am. It was almost like I was on a date with myself, putting on the “this is Dannielle” act for my brain.

Here are the things I was texting myself:

Just read a story about a designer who started her collection after being “frustrated with the lack of good napkins in the marketplace”.

What an odd thing to be frustrated over. Like, you can be frustrated over your nagging cough or the state of the education system or the man in the checkout line whose is breathing through his nose with a dangling shard of snot obscuring the sound of is breath. Those all seem like legitimate things to be frustrated over. But a lack of “good napkins”? Righto mate. *

* Look how relatable I am. Calling things out as wanky. Pointing out that there are real problems in the world. I’m so informed and insightful!

“Be adventurous”, readers are told in regards to styling table settings. Like it’s a sex life or a holiday choice.

It’s worth noting that I am sitting in a patisserie with powder blue walls where you pay a good seven bucks for a vanilla slice. And that’s not to say the vanilla slice – which, by the way, is called something else in a different language and comes dolloped with a decadent cream – isn’t delicious. It was worth every cent. And the powder blue walls are attractive. The seating is comfortable and the place is generally charming.

But it’s not the kind of place where the lady behind the counter calls you “darl”.*

* I’m from the country, therefore I’m more authentic than you.

It’s also worth noting that I’m in this place by myself on a Saturday evening* – date night – eating a slice that looks as if it were portioned to be split by two**. My skirt cost about four bucks from Vinnies*** and I’ve got two spare hair ties around my wrist. I’m listening to Christmas carols, and the song that just played was Feliz Navidad, sung by cats.

*I’m so independent

** I eat food. I’m such a real woman.

*** I buy vintage clothes. I’m cool. I’m climate conscious. I have a personal style. I’m better than those hordes of other girls, mouths in the troughs of fashion gruel that is consistently pumped out.

The point is not how pathetic/cool I am (this clearly is a subjective perception and I shan’t try to lead you, dear reader, towards either end of the spectrum – that’s a decision you’ve probably already made by now).

The point is perhaps that I’m not the intended target audience.

Definitely not the target audience. I ended up listening to cats meowing Feliz Navidad twice.*

* Apparently it was important for me to empathises my poor choice in Christmas carols. I guess I’m just edgy.

 I mean, I guess it worked. I ended up taking myself out to a movie and took myself home to bed.

But it’s now more than 24 hours later and I still haven’t got a text from myself…