Almost every Tuesday, Rob and I meet at our neighborhood Tupelo Honey Cafe for martinis (my favorite is the rosemary lime with gin).
They're $3 each and totally delicious, and we always say "Let's not get dinner," because this place is so southern that there's barely anything on the menu that isn't covered in cheese or rolled in some kind of batter and then fried, but also because we live an eight minute walk away and could easily just have a drink and go home (if we had any willpower at all). But every time, we get "snacks," which end up just being appetizers for dinner. Goat cheese grits are a thing and they taste like heaven.
I guess there are worse things that could happen.