I took these photos of you a couple weeks ago at Disney. It was when we were sitting along the water in Japan, and Wyatt was fucking around with that giant shaved iced he swore he’d eat all of, but it was the size of a newborn baby and melting all over him, and bees were just everywhere, so we sat down for a self imposed time out and to pretend we didn’t know whose kid that was covered in melted blue sugar water and bees.
I was pretending to check my email, but really, I was taking these photos of you for my “bank.”
They join a secret collection of photos of you vacuuming, pacing the sideline while coaching basketball, that one time you were trying to teach me how to put wiper fluid in my car, and random Jeff Goldblum pictures.
Obviously, I covered our kids with Pac-Man Ghosts, because that would be weird.
Andy, today you are 37, and I can’t get enough of you.
I could go on and on- all mushy and weepy- about how you save my life in every literal way, every day, but I’ll save that all for our E! True Hollywood Story voice overs.
Instead, I wanted you to know that I look at you and want to jump you with the same vigor as I did when I was 15 and you were teaching me how to drive a stick shift behind the Methodist Church that one Saturday morning.
Granted, I don’t really have “behind a church car sex” flexibility anymore, but the desire is still there, and as soon as we get home with all these groceries and put the almond milk and ice cream away, and I pop into the bathroom for a quick wipe down and to remove all the various panty liners and reapply my hippy deodorant, it’s on.
If you check the security camera in the middle of a weekday and hear a loud humming sound coming from the master bedroom hall, ignore it. It’s just me swiping through pictures of you and Jeff Goldblum. But mostly you.
Happy 37th Birthday, Andy.