In general, I’m totally against sexist statements and forcing people into stereotypical gender roles. But every now and then, I succumb to this antiquated way of thinking.
Recently, we went to our trusty salesman at the Ford dealership, and told him we were in the market for a pickup truck. While he was checking inventory, hubby got to looking around the showroom. He was especially drawn to a somewhat sissified version of an SUV. The color he fancied was burnt orange.
He listed all the reasons why it would be a better choice than the black, extended cab, 4x4, pickup with shiny running boards, and huge tires with sexy rims that make my inner redneck heart go thump.
Better gas mileage. (Only three extra miles to the gallon.)He could fit his upright bass inside. (He hasn’t belonged to a bluegrass band in years.)Lower cost. (Not by much.)Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.“Look, Hon, I can’t let you do this. You are 6’ 4.” It’s time to get a vehicle that fits you. One that you can drive without pulling your knees to your chest. A manly vehicle that I can look at and be proud to say, ‘That’s my husband’s!’ This burnt orange deal is not going to give either of us what we really want.”He laughed, “Okay, if it turns you on. But don’t forget, back in college I bought a pickup truck, and you didn’t like it.”“Um, yeah. That was a tiny, little thing with no extra features. This is a big truck that I have to actually climb into. And it’s fully loaded.”Just hearing the words “fully loaded” is a turn on. I can’t help it. I grew up in a family where cars were sex objects, and the women reacted to the scent of motor oil as though it were Hai Karate.