So we’re watching TV a few nights ago, and a commercial comes on for Zumba DVDs.
There’s a really hot babe – she’s sweating like someone poured a Flashdance bucket on her. She’s what they used to call ‘scantily clad’. And she’s thrusting her lady parts like her joints are lubricated with… um… lubricant.
By this time of the evening, my husband is usually sacked out and snoring on the sofa. But he’s curiously awake.
“Look at that,’ he says. “They use sex to sell everything. Look what they’re saying Zumba is like.”
“Well, it sort of is like that,” I answer.
“But you take Zumba,” he says, confused.
“Yup,” I say.
He considers the idea.
“That’s why your hips are sore?” he asks.
The commercial is over and the cooking competition comes back on.
After a while, my husband says, “It’s supposed to be icy on Saturday. Maybe I should take you in the truck to your Zumba class.”
“A ride would be nice. You could go out for coffee or something.”
I explain, “We don’t have an audience in Zumba.”
In a novel, the author would describe his look as ‘crestfallen’ – and his crest did noticeably fall.
My husband’s brain can totally disregard reality.
I love that about him.