Every Sunday I go to war with myself.
Should I utilize my day off efficiently by getting up, cleaning my house, roller blading, weeding the yard, writing letters to old friends, calling my grandparents and grocery shopping for the week? Or should I go to brunch with my friends, weight myself down with food, go back home, find a sunny corner and nap?
More often than not, the latter wins out.
Which is exactly why I found myself at a table at the Tin Angel last Sunday afternoon with three very puffy-faced friends