...that all weekends should be four days, like the one I just had. Added bonus: Boyfriend home for just about all of it.
And now for some numbers...
Two: the number of days leave I took to make my four-day supercalifragilistic weekend.
One: the number of beers I drank at the Hyundai Fanpark during the Portugal-Brazil game on Friday afternoon. This is an accomplishment for me, the ultimate non-beer drinker. I really don't mean to be prissy, it just won't go down (which is interesting considering the Black Label guzzling that constituted a large portion of my, shall we say, younger youth).
Five: the number of Americans seated beside us at dinner at Minato on Friday night, who subsequently paid our bill and welcomed us into their rented apartment to watch Chile versus Spain and drink their booze. Say what you will about loud yanks, all we experienced was some good ole-fashioned American hospitality. In my drunken state I offered to guide them up Lion's Head this weekend in exchange for board and lodging should I ever visit California.
Two: the number of scoops of Sinnful ice cream consumed while walking along Muizenberg Beach in Sunday's unseasonable sunshine. Delicious (the triple chocolate and butter pecan, and the weather).
Innumerable: the number of hours of series and movie watching completed over the weekend. Can still blame the chilly weather, but I also suspect this is becoming a bad habit.
Two: the number of cars I am torn between buying. Either way, will finally be the proud owner of a little citi golf by the weekend. Is very, very exciting.
Four: the number of slices of toast I had for dinner last night.
Forty: the number of minutes of cardio I put in this morning before work to offset the weekend's indulgences. Back to early morning sweating it out and munching on rice cakes and cottage cheese for this blogger. I have a goal weight and a goal date and nothing – nothing – is going to stop me this time. (Did that sound a little manic? I think it did. Sorry)
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