Today, I shaved a stripe in my leg. That’s what breakups will do to you. Hours after your heart is wrenched, the brain hits the first round of questions: What? Why? How? Gah! Am I a rebounder or a mourner? And you decide where you are mentally in relation to the sex of your choice.
Then you hit the second round of questions. What do I do with the stuff? Do I throw it out or save it for memory’s sake? And some stuff goes in the trash, and some stuff remains where it was, only eyeballed, cognizant of the fact that at some point, when you’re ready, a decision will have to be made.
And then it’s time for round three—the questions you don’t ask yourself but which surface inconveniently, reminding you that you’re alone. Like the first time I'm in the shower and automatically pick up the razor and… and what? I wear pants to work in winter. And I don’t have anywhere to go, and no man or woman is getting anywhere near my legs these days. Do I shave?
So practically in spite, I swipe a swipe. Left leg, check. Right leg, check. Two pathways through the underbrush. Hell, nobody will know. A single woman’s inner rebellion.
And now I sit in my bathrobe with two partially hairy legs, finger venting on my laptop. Maybe I’ll pour myself a drink and then rub the hairless stripes against one another to see how it feels. Could I get just the smooth parts to touch, or would I inevitably feel a prickle from the hedges on either side of the path?
Golly, isn’t this fun?
In its own way, I suppose it is.
