Chewbacca brings all the boys to the yard.

I’ve been wearing skirts – short skirts – for the last three days straight.  Because, you’ll never believe it.  But.  I.  Shaved.  (Insert collective intake of breath here.) Standing at the bathroom sink. In my underwear. With the door all the way open so I could keep an eye on my boys.  Not so easy a task, given the unfathomable amount of leg hair I was wrestling with.  See, it was hot as balls outside and I had no other option: I had to take the kids to the pool before they melted.  Or murdered each other with Thomas the Tank Engine and his fucking freaky friends.  (A batch of toys we were unfortunate enough to inherit from an acquaintance and which were recognized as being “choo woos” before we could hide them deep within the caverns of the basement.  Also, yes, they probably ARE the ones clad in Evil Toy Paint Hailing From China.  What?  Sue me.)

Thanks to my limited amount of free time and my unparalleled knack for procrastination, shaving and other hygiene-related activities have kind of taken a back seat.  It’s an exercise in futility, actually, because no matter how many times you clean yourself up, you’re just going to get dirty and have repeat the whole process again.  And to be clear, by activities, I mean, hair-washing, deodorant-wearing, hell, showering in general. The exception to this rule is that single, pesky beard hair that keeps rearing it’s insistent ugly head, and which I force my husband to pull out with his fingers at such opportune moments as when I’m driving.  But as far as everything else goes, I can be out of deodorant, shampoo, conditioner and that yummy liquid body soap that smells of _________ (you choose, I don’t favor one over the others) for many days before it becomes a priority to address.  And you can see (can’t you?) how it creates a vicious cycle: no soap yields no shower, and, if I’m not planning on showering anyway, why would I make the effort to go somewhere to buy soap?  Simply to support the futility of it all?

Ordinarily, in a perfect world, I would shave in the shower.  Like a normal, sane woman.  A woman who takes pride in her appearance.  A woman who is well-groomed.  However, taking a shower expressly for the purpose of leg shaving while “watching” my children was out of the question.  I mean, think about it.  If I took a shower and went through the trouble of shaving each leg, I’d be forced to wash my hair, because what exactly would be the point of bothering to shave when my raggedy-ass hair would scream out: “THIS CRAZY BITCH SHAVED SINK-SIDE!” thus nullifying the entire intent.  And a shower of that caliber would consume way more time than my two little men would be willing to concede gracefully.  Hence, I chose to sink-shave.  Bikini-line and all.  For the first time all summer.  Seriously.  Close your mouth right now.  No, I’m not a fucking hippie.  I’m…European.

Ok.  Shut up.

You’re right.  I simply have no shame and don’t give a shit about who my exposed pubes offend.  (It turns out that all those super-stylish moms sporting the happenin’ little bathing skirts that add ten years of life to their cottage-cheese asses are onto something.)

So, as we were going to the pool, at the health club, where those snotty, nouveaux-riche, gym ripped, brand-name two-piece wearing, whores with multiple bastard children, WOULD notice poorly behaved stray curlicues fighting the boundaries of the bathing suit, I did it.  I rid myself of that unwanted hair.  AND the precious, little baby tick half-burrowed beneath my c-section scar.  Fucker.

Alors, voila. I feel brand new. Finally, I can go to the pool with dignity.  (As long as I remember to cover the awful leprosy-like razor burn.) And I will wear short skirts with abandon.  At least until tomorrow.  When I assume the hair will grow back.

Sigh.  It always grows back.  Thanks, Kami, for this hilarious Three Day Weekend post!  Kami writes at her blog, The Fence, and can also be found on twitter!