Ah, glorious Sunday, the day I can sleep in until well after eight -- with the exception of feeding the cats at 6am and then going back to bed -- dick around on the internet, and be delightfully free of responsibilities -- except for laundry and finding food and paying bills. Sunday, you are my crutch in a sea of driven days.

And that last entry? The one with all the bitterness? Brought to you by our friends, Tequila, Triple Sec, and a serious splash of margarita mix.

So I've got this thing tonight where I have to be all dressy and wear clothes that probably reach my knee or at least show off my hot and curvy legs and I just don't even know. I'm also supposed to go to this reception and I'm not sure how I feel about that either on account of being more inept than ept at social gatherings -- to the point where I consider taking up smoking for the evening just so I have something to do with my hands. It'll be fine, yeah. So fine. But I will drive myself crazy worrying about it until I'm in my seat at the theatre and the lights go down and I know for sure that no one is judging my shoes. Because until I buy new ones, they're pretty judge-able. But I can't buy any new things until my body quits shifting around and picks a dress size it plans to stick with, and then I can find all the shoes in the world to match my forward thinking wardrobe.

I am forgetting that there is no worrying on Sunday. Sunday is the sleep-in day, Sunday is the day that the other days whisper about in the halls and by the water cooler. Sunday is all laid back and business casual and possibly a liberal amount of Bailey's in my coffee cup kinda day.

Sunday.