As regular readers are aware, The Wife is doing this grueling 3x-a-week fitness bootcamp thing in Berkeley that basically amounts to an hour of strenuous workout every time. This involves getting up Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning at 5:40 a.m.
In a show of husbandly solidarity, and maybe marginally in the interest of my own self-improvement, I have also been rising with her 3x a week and doing my own workout regimen, which consists of jogging about 2 1/2 miles. So, yay, everyone’s self-improving.
So The Wife has come down with something and she’s really, really sick. She called me this morning at the office and groggily informed me she’s not going to work today. She’s making an appt. with the doctor instead. She sounded just awful. POOR THING.
I, of course, extended the appropriate sympathy and encouraged her to seek medical treatment and told her I hoped she felt better soon and whatever else. But you know what I was thinking?
Sweet, no boot camp tomorrow, I can get my drink on tonight!
The line to slap me forms to the left.
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