Weekends were meant for 60 minute cinnamon rolls.
For alarm snoozing and puppy snuggles in bed. For long stretches and baggy pajamas and messy buns.
They are not for 5:30 wake-ups just so your cinnamon rolls have time for a double rise while you snore on the countertop.
Weekends were meant for listening to the rain and blackmailing your husband into walking the dog so you can make cinnamon rolls. For rolling out dough and laughing until you cry after you drop a handful of flour on the dog’s head.
They are not formissing out on an obligation-free wake-up and zombie-walking around the house until you find the warmest corner for your cinnamon rolls to rise.
Weekends were meant for munching on cinnamon sugar clumps while lining up a day’s worth of netflix reruns. For important assessment of which couch you plan on leaving your butt print in this weekend. For licks of frosting while you weigh the importance of golden-brown cinnamon rolls against the ravenous monster raging in your tummy.
They are not for finally eating breakfast around lunchtime and grumping at your husband because half your day is gone and you can now only fit three episodes of Game of Thrones into your day instead of five.
Weekends were meant for pulling hot cinnamon rolls out of the oven and loading up your plate with one… or two… or three. For spreading copycat cinnabon frosting across the top and watching it melt into buttery cinnamon sugar goodness.
So make sure you have yourself a weekend!