5 Things It Might Mean When I Shave My Legs
Warm water? Check. Shaving cream? Check. Razor? Check. Eclectic mix of ’90s gangsta rap? Check.
I’ve got all my essentials. I confidently strut down the hallway with a mission in mind. I’m about to make my legs as smooth as Leonardo DiCaprio with a supermodel who has a daddy issue.
My partner glares at me from down the hall, just trying to figure it all out. I wink and lock the door. I’m doing this.
I’m shaving my legs. This could mean anything.
1. I’m Aware
I’ve known for a couple of weeks now that I’ve been neglecting my now grizzly gams. However, it wasn’t until this morning when I stepped outside on a gorgeous day with a slight breeze. That very slight breeze I was appreciating was now also whipping my currently quarter inch long leg hair like a Pantene Pro-V commercial.
2. Frankly, I Don’t Give a Damn
Let’s get real: The status of my furry Chewbacca calves is not bothering me in the very least. I’ve tried to care. I really have. The only reason I’m shaving my legs is so that I have a valid excuse to shut and lock the bathroom door, sneak off with the last of the cabernet, and listen to ’90s gangsta rap. Only God can judge me.
3. Forecast: Fuckability
I’m not saying that I’m porn star Mach 10-level horny right now, but I am saying that if you had a 1 in 10 chance of getting laid in the next few days, your chances have probably increased to at least 4 in 10. How did I come up with that number? Basic fuckability statistics. Geez, don’t you remember high school math?
4. I Just Miss My Pants
My absolute, hands down, favorite pair of leggings is getting a little worn and thin. I’d rather not flaunt my porcupine status if I don’t have to, and I’m sure as hell not not wearing my favorite pair of leggings. Oh, who am I kidding? My hair is so long it has no hint of a hope of poking out of anything. It sadly lies as flat as my boobs did after I stopped breastfeeding. The only thing my leg hair is poking out of is the top of my socks.
5. I Just Love Sleep
Basically everything I do in my little, lonely, miserable, meaningless life is all for one purpose: a supreme sleep experience. I saved up for six months to buy that comforter. I met up with whom I can only assume is a meth cook, in a Walmart parking lot, and traded my husband’s golf clubs he hasn’t used in four years for that extra plush rug under my bed. I researched for three weeks in an attempt to find that perfect pillow I lay my head on every night.
And you can guaran-fucking-tee that the only reason I’m shaving my legs today is to rub them obnoxiously on my organic bamboo cotton luxury sheets. What the fuck are organic bamboo cotton luxury sheets? To hell if I know! Only thing I know is they feel like Channing Tatum doing a Magic Mike dance on my naked legs while I’m devouring a triple-dark-chocolate-raspberry-bacon something that no one has ever had before. Not even Kimye.
Anyway, I’m shaving my legs. It could mean anything.
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