Recently I wrote how my honey described a woman’s skirt as an ass cover, marveling at his lack of correct vernacular when it comes to women’s clothing.

So imagine my mirth when he described my sleeveless silk blouse. I have a cool summer blouse I wear for work: a little billowy with a ruffle: a little playful. Pretty.

I was still wearing it when he floated home from work.

Hey, I really like that, he said. What’s that, I asked.

Your Tarzan outfit.

I saw myself swinging through the jungle, holding fast to a vine, clothed in Ann Taylor from the mall.

Huh? I asked. How is this blouse like Tarzan?

He pointed to my bare arms.

Because I can see your arms, he said.

Tarzan arms.