For the love of baby Jesus and all that is holy, please don’t be wearing sweat pants, I frantically whatsapped my lunch buddy Freddie. To be fair, he looks fly in his workout gear but as I stood outside our chosen lunch destination, drooling over the menu and spying in on the kind of meticulously decorated interior space that only exists between Av. Santa Fe and Cordoba, I was worried my (new)(ok, thrift store finds but new to me) tennis shoes and his workout outfit were going to elicit some stares. Bad news, he was wearing sweat pants. Good news, he brought a change of clothes.
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