On Friday I met up with a friend and checked out a new bar, but ordered some food (this is what passes for personal growth in my life) and headed home around 10pm.
Saturday was easily the most painful part of the weekend. I ignored an invite to rooftop drinks nearby and simply stayed at home all day, gazing at the warm and sunny weather outside. What's that you say? That I could have gone outside and done something that didn't involve alcohol? If that's what you're thinking, then you clearly know very little about Australia or me, and probably shouldn't have an opinion on such matters.
Eventually I went out to dinner to a tapas restaurant I've been dying to try out for a long time now, and after one post-dinner drink, headed home and got into bed. Sunday was a picnic with the gang, and we limited ourselves to a couple of bottles of champagne between us, after which I went home and cooked up a storm.
Most people I've told about my weekend have noted that even my version of a quiet weekend seems to involve doing a lot more than most people would do on a busy weekend. But still, all I could wonder was how fat people live like that every weekend and don't cry from the utter boredom of it all. (Or maybe they do. I've never spent much time with one.) Granted, no one needs to be shockingly drunk every (or any) weekend, but forgive me if I plan a long lunch for this coming Saturday.