Earlier this year I sent an innocent message that slightly decimated parts of my friendship group.
It happened within the elaborate negotiation process that unfolds when a group of millennial women attempt to gather in the same room for at least an hour. The weight of the almighty 'we must catch up' bristling against their already packed calendars.
Dates are offered up and then quickly rejected. Locations are tentatively thrown out and then swiftly vetoed. One courageous outlier will optimistically suggest a physical activity and will then be quietly shunned for at least an hour for daring to detour from the 'sit at a table and consume beverage' master plan.
It's much like how the United Nations make all their big decisions, I imagine, or how Anna Wintour manages negotiations with TikTok when they buy a table at the Met Gala and then want to fill it with teenagers who dance or poke through shopping hauls in dimly lit bedrooms.
An endless stream of counter offers and ultimatums.
On this particular day, the planets had somehow suddenly aligned and a 9:30am Sunday date was locked in.
To be held around a table bulging with breakfast foods, coffees, and potentially a mimosa or two. Weather apps were predicting a glorious sunny day, and the chosen location included outdoor tables pulled across a slab of cement, possibly close to a potted plant, designed to give Sydneysiders like us a break from the small cement boxes we call home and bask in the illusion of being 'outside'.