Things I Do When I’m Alone In My Room (The Non-Porno Version)

I open the door; relief floods me. I’m home. I don’t know where I’ve been but it doesn’t matter—work, a bar, the city—it’s all the same. The important part is being home, in my room, my little bubble. I begin to relax—I can literally feel the tension in my shoulders dissolving through my back, gushing through my thighs, down to my calves and melting out of my feet into an invisible puddle on the floor.

I kick off my shoes—so it begins. Off come my pants (I’d call it a guilty pleasure but there’s no shame in going pantsless) and now I’m standing in the middle of the room in a t-shirt and my daggy undies looking at myself in the mirror like it’s some kind of science experiment. I turn to the side, arch my back, trying to make my ass look bigger and rounder.

I frown when I can’t make the dimensions just as I wanted them and I move closer to the mirror. I start sticking my tummy out, and then sucking it all the way in. I’m contorting my face as I do it; my eyes are wide and crazy, my mouth twisted into a toothy growl. It’s not my best look, but it’s not my worst. I try harder.

Now I’m so close to the mirror my nose is almost pressed against it. Speaking of nose, I start pulling it back from the tip. I leave my mouth slightly agape and create a weird, piggish visage with jutting rabbit teeth. I crease my brow as hard as I can, then I let go of it all, and stare at my plain face for a second. Boring. Gross rabbit pig lady was much better.

I go down stairs. I make a cup of tea. Back in my room, tea in hand, I crawl onto my bed. I reach beneath the mattress, my hand moving deftly to the crevasse I so habitually stroke. I emerge triumphant, a handful of chocolates my prize. I promise myself I will only eat 4 of the small, bite size Cadbury Favourites. I eat at least 10.

I start watching television on my computer. I think about watching something enlightening—maybe a documentary?—but I put on Friends instead. I’ve seen the episodes so many times I laugh before they even reach the punch line. I’m spread eagled on my bed and resting my tea on my bloated tummy. There are no chocolates left because after I ate the first 10 I went ahead and ate the rest.

I make popcorn. I put so much salt on it I need to drink water after every bite. Now there’s salt all through my sheets and I’m rolling in it. I’m picking salt out of my belly button. My restless fingers move south and now I’m picking at ingrown hairs. I do this for maybe an hour. I’m looking for that perfect hair—you know, the one where when you squeeze it, a whole mess of crap comes out followed by the longest hair you’ve ever seen. It gives me a whole new sense of achievement.

Once there’s nothing left to squeeze and I’m just sort of listlessly picking at skin, I feel the urge to move. It’s after midnight and everything is silent. It’s like magic. The real me comes alive. On with the Beyonce. On with the Ja. On with the Hole. On with the No Doubt. On with the Dawson’s Creek soundtrack. I’m up now, gyrating around the room. I’m singing loudly and out of tune, thrashing my body back and forth. These are my best moves—for some reason I can’t move this well in public. I put it down to the midnight bedroom madness.

I fart loudly and laugh at myself. I throw myself back down on the bed, wriggling out of my t-shirt and bra. I pull the sheets around me and stretch out, taking up the whole bed. I fall asleep thinking about what a lovely night I had, alone with my guilty little pleasures.