I am currently in the phase of winter where I walk around outside mentally cussing myself for ever complaining that it was too hot. What is heat? Some elusive brand of wind or rain that I haven’t yet experienced? Is it related at all to horrible quivering cold? I really can’t remember at this point. I just have some vague summer recollection of sprawling on the floor in my underwear, sweating and loudly declaring that I was about to die.
I can’t imagine from what.
I’m looking forward to this summer for several reasons. The sky will be blue again, for one. We’ll be living in a nicer place. My folks will be having a seething throng of Bagleys at their house for an all-inclusive reunion that promises to clean out liquor stores for miles around.
I kid, I kid. Half of them are Mormon. The rest have to work hard to pick up the slack.
Really, though, the big shining star of the upcoming summer is Laura’s wedding, which I am increasingly excited for. I mean, Laura is great. Her beau Kevin is great. When they become a single family, that will make them some kind of ubergreat, a nexus of awesome. A supernova of fabulousity. An avalanche of tubularity. They will become a black hole of radicalness, and those lucky few that get to stand around them will be consumed in that fierce cosmic whirlpool of coolness.
Which all sounds pretty neat to me.
I am pleased as punch to be a part of the wedding party, and this weekend Laura, Kevin’s sister and I are going to the bridal boutique to pick out bridesmaid’s dresses. Laura graciously is letting us pick the styles that work best for us, so long as they are all knee length and the same color. This is a brilliant idea that I plan on stealing in the future, because there is really nothing that puts a damper on a day quite like looking like a mutated potato monster stuffed into a purple prison of silk and tulle. Shopping for something that will work for me is going to be fun, I think.
The only part of it that I am not looking forward to is shaving my legs.
Here is the deal, you guys. My genes have blessed me with inhumanely hairy legs. And I know that lots of women say, “Oh, my gosh, my legs are the hairiest!” but they know nothing of hairy legs.
I don’t have that blonde peach fuzz that some women get, or even that silky brown down that other women exhibit. No, three days after I shave, my legs become tree trunks sprouting stiff black pine needles that only get soft when I’ve left them alone for a month, at least.
I fought with leg hair for years and years, shaving every other day, every day, once a week, with fancy razors and cheap razors, with soap and expensive creams and conditioners and lotions, and the result is always the same. A single afternoon of smooth white legs (albeit with little black speckles all over) then two days of angry red bumps and then BAM, leg hair long enough to braid.
At this point I’ve given up. Taylor doesn’t care. I don’t care. I shave now only for important life events, like bar mitzvahs or pedicures. I avoid wearing shorts or skirts without tights. It’s a simple, pleasant way of life. I’m perfectly comfortable, and when I do shave, the smooth-leg feeling is even nicer, for the forty five seconds that it lasts.
Ladies, are you frequent leg-shavers?