A Saturday night can usually go one of two ways: fun or boring.

But this is for normal people with normal schedules. For someone who works seven days a week, the Saturday night spectrum ranges from soul-crushingly unbearable to BLACKOUT DRUNK. (When you’re single you take the numerical equivalent of each extreme to the power of ten.)

You see, when you’re going nonstop and you get a hot minute to hit the town, you have pretty high expectations for where they night will lead you. Fall short and you fall into a pit of despair–”Noooo, my only night off WAAAASTED.”

Go hard and you’ll hardly remember you have a job at all–”My only night off and I’m gettin’ WAAAAASTED, bitches.”

Last weekend, Mitch and I went with the second option.

I started out not wanting to go out at all but after a bottle of wine was most certainly whistling a different tune. It went a little something like THIS:

That song pretty much defines my college career. My parents are so proud.

So yeah, my day started innocently enough baking sweet little fig granola bars with pumpkin puree instead of oil and honey and things because I’m a dietitian or something.

And it ended barefoot in a parking garage somewhere uptown…

Somewhere in between this happened:

I’m a firm believer that this is part of a balanced, healthy life.