And this:

Our hotel, Charleston Place, was, as my editor from Service Magic would say, “a little slice of heaven.” Ben, the world’s greatest bellhop/concierge/cool Southern gentleman, gave us the heads up on the best places to go for a walk before dinner and also confided that he’s testing out his super awesome girlfriend by taking her on a road trip in September. He also managed to swing us a sweet upgrade to a room that looked something like this:

And this:

The room had a television that actually rose BY ITSELF from a wooden box at the foot of the bed. I could have entertained myself with that for hours, had Chris not forced me to go to dinner.

Dinner was at Magnolia’s, which easily added ten pounds to my thighs yet a million ounces of warmth to my heart. Chris and I tried grits, fried chicken, pork shoulder, and biscuits before we called it a day and drug our fat, lifeless bodies back to the hotel. But not before we had ice cream from Kirwin’s.

Forgive me Jillian Michaels, for I have sinned. And it FELT.SO.GOOD.