Charming, but single

I can never sleep on Sunday nights. It doesn’t matter how much I do, how early I got up, what I have to do on Monday morning. I could run a freaking marathon and follow it up with a million push-ups on Sunday, and I still would be up until freaking 4 a.m. that night. It’s the anticipation. Of the week. What will happen? Will I work 80 hours this week? Will I have fun on my Margarita Date? Are my black pants ironed? Am I ready for my Tuesday meeting? Maybe I should get out of bed and iron those black pants. And if the black pants are ironed, what am I going to wear with them? Should I wear the round toe leopard print ballet flats or the pointy toe black flats? Is the fact that I purchased two pairs of flats to replace my big heels a sign that I’m losing my mojo? Is that soft cranberry sweater I bought this weekend dressy enough for Monday? No. It’s more of a Friday outfit. It has a hood. It is a soft sweater cranberry-colored hoodie. What was I thinking? I don’t wear hoodies. I stole my sister’s hoodie once. It was comfy, but I felt frumpy. I gave it back. Yes, the sweater hoodie and the flats. Signs of the loss of my mojo and impending doom. The kind of doom that will come because I’m on track to get maybe two hours sleep tonight. If that. And I have to bring doughnuts to work tomorrow. And yes, that date. Margaritas. Tuesday night maybe? That polka dot wrap dress would be cute for the Margarita Date. With a camisole underneath it because too much cleavage is inadvisable for a first date. Especially since I’m kind of sure that I really am not going to really mesh with him and I’m only really going out with him because I said I would and I’m a nice girl. Crap. It is 3 a.m. My alarm goes off at 5 a.m. Double crap.