Katrina is constantly complaining about my attire.
"So...is it just the one black t-shirt and sweatpants that used to be black but have now faded into some kind of Corpse Blue? Or do you have multiple?" she asks.
Or simply, "News flash: you are not Steve Jobs."
When we went out to dinner the other night, I made a point of wearing a maroon dress shirt and beige slacks. She didn't notice, of course, so I pointed it out. She took exception to my phrasing.
"That is not a 'costume,' John. Those are what normal people call 'clothes.'"
Tomato, tomahto.
And so we dined, and then we returned to her waiting husband and child. I would visit, but first a couple of uncomfortable things simply had to go.
Welcome back, t-shirt and sweats. Daddy wuvs you.
Everyone was seated on the patio when I returned. The nine year old girl looked up at me and grimaced.
"Why did you change? You looked so nice!"