I lay in bed this morning, half buried under the folds of down comforters, watching morning slowly become afternoon. I read every word of Rolling Stone and bargained with myself that in another fifteen minutes, I'd get up in earnest.

Finally, the RSF called and badgered me out of bed.

"We're going to the gym in 45 minutes. I'll be on your porch and I am immune to your whining."

He, however, was not immune to my powers of negotiation. A trip to the gym became a trip to the grocery store for red meat, Girl Scout cookie ice cream and curly fries.

That's what's called going to the gym, Sunday style.