To my loving wife:
Your daughter and I went to the gym after breakfast today. As I put her down on the playroom floor next to her favourite day care lady she looked up at me and burst into tears.
"Hey, hey hey, dad. WhereareyougoingwhyareyouleavingmehereonthefloorILOVEYOU!"
I picked her up and she calmed down; I set her down again and she was still calm. She began to happily play with the little bowls and the xylophone. When I stood up and walked over to the gated door to leave, though, she zoomed over like a little ladybug (are ladybugs fast?) wailing disconsolately.
Someone did not want to work out today. No matter how many times I promised that Steve Young would spiral her across the room to me.
I picked her up and quickly exited ("Bye bye guys.") and drove home to put her down for a nap. Such inexplicable sadness at being left at one of her favourite places convinced me she was merely tired.
She napped. I ate the Indian food leftovers from last night.
And I sweated. It is freaking hot here today.
By the time your daughter awoke from her nap I was shirtless, shoeless, and sockless.
And, feeling mildly guilty that I didn’t get any kind of workout in today while also stuffing myself full of naan and rice, I prepared myself to do some crunches while your daughter ate her lunch in her throne overlooking her living room dominion.
Preparing to do crunches involved me taking my pants off, because you can kiss my ass if you think I’m going to do any working out in the 90 degree living room wearing jeans.
So, dear, at 2pm this afternoon I was all sweaty on the living room floor wearing nothing but my skivvies.
Miss you ;}
Your loving, near-naked, sweaty husband.