There are some people in this world who cruise through life as cool as cucumbers. Slice them up and dollop them with crème fraîche because nothing will ever faze them. They’re the kinds of people who forget their sunnies on their way to the beach only to stumble upon a pair at the servo that are so uncool they’re ‘Prada cool’. They always leave five minutes late but it’s never a big deal because they score the best parking spots. If they contracted a mosquito-borne illness, green complexions would suddenly be in fashion. Their faces are always a sunny blend of Whoops and Wasn’t that lucky? They’re the kinds of people who win the day, every day—not because they’re trying, but because they’re not.

I can categorically confirm that I am not one of those people. In fact, I’m the polar opposite. I was born to try. I’m basically Delta Goodrem in that regard.

Take the situation I’m in right now, for example. I should really slow down, but I can’t. It’s not what I do.

My legs are thrashing painfully and my lungs can’t pump the oxygen fast enough. My body is so drenched in perspiration it’s almost comical.

Everything burns. There’s a tiny part of me that’s terrified I’m dying—and not in the way influencers declare they’re literally dying while they scoff the latest viral soufflé. I’m legitimately worried about organ failure.

My airways squeeze tighter. This is not dying, I tell myself sternly. This is character building. I can’t die anyway. I have too much to do, and there’d be no one to plan my funeral. These days, I’m the organised one.

Dad and Maxy would try their best, but they’d forget something big. I can imagine them getting out of the car, dressed in their suits, and both saying, Ohhhh, I thought you were getting the coffin. Then, after a sheepish laugh, they’d make do with an old cardboard box. I’d be shunted into the afterlife with all the ceremony of an Ikea flatpack shoved on the roof racks.

Jessie would definitely do a better job of organising my funeral given she works in events for a major record label, but her runsheets all involve dirty margaritas and famous popstars emerging from layer cakes. Through sheer force of habit she’d probably hire a former Australian Idol to MC the wake, and that’s not a legacy I want to leave.

The only solution to my current predicament is to keep moving. I can get through this.

The pain is pressing in on me from all angles. There’s the blunt walloping against my temples, the seizing in my chest and, worst of all, the black spot in my mind that grows in moments like these, threatening to swallow me like a sinkhole.

I attempt to flex my fingers for grip but my limbs are losing all feeling now. I really think I’m about to spew when—

‘Great work, guys!’ cries the woman at the front of the studio. ‘You’re finished! What a way to start your Saturday! For those who went up to Level Six today, well done. Hope you can walk tomorrow!’ She flashes a brilliant smile and unclips her shoes from the pedals as I fall gracelessly in a heap on the rubber-matted floor. From my throat comes a sound that is halfway between grizzly bear and pornstar. (To clarify: it is not sexy.)

Around me, the more dignified patrons of the East Side Spin Studio dismount their stationary bikes and file out of the room.

The lycra-clad trainer approaches me cautiously. She is wiry and Irish with peroxide hair and terrifying quad muscles. ‘You know Level Six is the highest level we normally do, right?’ she says. ‘And you were doing Level Eight.’

I grimace as I give a weak laugh. ‘I was feeling ambitious.’

The trainer frowns in a way that suggests she’s trying not to judge me but might be doing so anyway. ‘Okay,’ she says slowly. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow for the Sunday special?’

‘You bet,’ I agree, as she saunters off, leaving me to scramble for my belongings before the next class starts.

My limbs feel wobbly and octopus-like, as though my bones no longer exist. I concede it was dumb to try Level Eight, but there was a combination of factors at play. Guilt that I slept in and missed the 5.30 a.m. class. Guilt that I’m slightly hungover. Guilt that I didn’t finalise our media schedule last night like I’d planned to. It was all that, coupled with a sadistic need to constantly beat my own PB. It boiled down to one solution, which was penance. Via spin class.

I can feel a sweat patch blossoming between my boobs as I throw my bag over my shoulder and hightail it out of the gym. I still can’t believe our election campaign kicks off this week and I just wasted a whole night (last night) drinking cocktails.

It couldn’t be helped, though. My boss was in one of those moods where he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He said we needed to celebrate the end of parliament next week. He said we deserved it. He said the sun was shining and he had a booking at Opera Bar. And so, in the interests of being ‘a team player’ and ‘a good culture fit’, I accepted the invitation to drink $24 cosmopolitans. I just hadn’t anticipated them being quite so delicious…