Keeping the romance alive

We've gotten into a nice routine in the afternoons.  The weather has been so glorious -- upper 60s to mid 70s -- that J picks the kids up in the afternoon and takes them straight to the park.  I get home, exercise if I didn't manage to do it before work, and then get dinner ready.  J brings the kids home at about 6, dinner's ready and on the table by 6:30, and we have some nice family time.

Yesterday I did a weights workout that didn't cause me to break too much of a sweat, plus I knew that I would be doing a hard cardio workout this morning that would require a shower afterwards, so I cleaned up by running a washcloth over my face and pits (face first, natch). 

By the time J came home with the monkeys, the table was set and dinner was ready.  When I heard the car pull up, I went outside to meet them.

When J saw me, his eyes lit up, he gave me a kiss, and he said, with great enthusiasm, "that's my girl! All barefoot and sexy." 

There were some people walking by on the sidewalk, and he looked at them and did a, "eh? eh?  check out what I got!  That's what I'm talking about, baby!" 

They laughed.  I rolled my eyes and chuckled under my breath.

Oh, and the outfit that sparked his ardor?

A ratty white wifebeater, replete with grease spots from the burgers I had been preparing.  A ratty black sports bra underneath.  A pair of workout shorts that fit kind of like men's boxer briefs, only they're so old and abused by my wearing then when I was pregnant that the waistband is all stretched out.  And an knee-length apron decorated with pictures of herbs and flowers.  Hair in a scraggly ponytail, lop-sided from when I was lying on my back to do ab work.  A smudge of mascara under one eye.

Hot hot hot is how I roll.

Clearly, he needs to get out more.