So, Nick went out for a run with Jordan about two hours ago.
Two hours! Actually, a little more.
This is not a man who runs for hours.
And I don't know if I'm being paranoid, but I realize I might be, because every time he's gone longer than I expect, every time I can't reach him when I try repeatedly, every time he's not where I think he'll be, it's like this:
I'm sure he's dead.
Especially when he goes out to exercise. I totally picture his weight and all those disgusting animal fats that are surely clogging his arteries getting the best of him.
And he'll come home and I'll be all, "Oh, thank God you're not dead."
He doesn't appreciate it.
Once you're a middle-aged man with this undisclosed amount of extra weight that is tantamount to strapping an adult Labrador Retriever around your waist, and this family history of men keeling over from heart disease, and an obese father who had major heart surgery and now has eaten his way back to his prior weight...
Well, your wife is going to worry.
So I'm just saying.
And now I don't even remember what my question was. Oh, yes. Do you do this?
Or is it just me?