Hemalayaa wants me to be sexy.
Hemalayaa wants me to stand up and pulse my hips up and down and up and down and up and down and she keeps calling it a "relaxation move" but I have never before in my life relaxed and sweated and wept at the same time. Except between labor contractions.
Hemalayaa wants me to burn and she keeps laughing and giggling and she makes me jump from side to side, side to side, side to side and then lunge, lunge, lunge, and all in time to a watered-down Bhangra that sounds like a Punjabi wedding trapped in the white bread aisle of a grocery store.
Hemalayaa says, "Now lunge-hop-spin-waltz-step-spin-lunge-SMILE AND GET SEXY!" but I can't, Hemalayaa, I can't be sexy and shake my shoulders and bobble-wobble my head and get my "praise hands" going, I just can't.
Around my house, "sexy" is changing into my comfy pants and eating a pint of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia and stretching back on the sofa to leave just a hint of belly hang over the top of my waistband, looking for all the world like a warm, white slug. Me and my belly both.
Your kind of sexy hurts.
You are hurting me.
You are making me do things and my heart and lungs are complaining.
Your kind of sexy is a lot like...exercise.
My husband and I are getting old.
We like the kind of sexy where you get to sit down and have a few beers.
And a nap.
Where's the scene in the Bollywood movie where all the sexy people sit around and eat great curry and sing in impossibly soprano voices about taking a nap?
I want that workout video.
Please bear with me on the ad clickthrough hyperlink text. I'm experimenting with some stuff here for my soon-to-be other blog. Most all the selly-selly stuff will be switched over there in a few weeks.