- Share This Post
- Pin It
- 0
- 16
-
Sparkle (0)
I can't raise my arms.
You see, I have a small problem. It's a hairy situation, really, what with the forest of growth developing in the pits of darkness.
I've got furry armpits.
At first, it started off rather innocently. Read that as "shear laziness." (Pun intended.) Between having to bend over and contort to shave the nether regions and my gams, I simply ran out of energy one day while I was in the shower. So I left my pits for another day, thinking I'd get to them eventually.
Then came the epic battle over razors. I keep buying them, and they keep disappearing. I hear this is the price one pays for having a teenaged girl. I don't know what she does with them, but given the lack of body hair on her still-developing body, I have a strong suspicion she is stealing them and selling them on the black market to raise money for packs of bubble gum.
My daughter of course pleads innocent on all charges. Her defense? The razors must have grown legs and marched away looking for less hairy pastures to play in.
All I know is that every time I felt inspired to weed whack, there is no implement at hand and the pits stay forested.
Totally sexy right?
Not long after my own carpet arrived I read Schmutzie's ode to the fuzzy wuzzies, and what can I say? I was inspired. These pits had a hall pass to freedom because suddenly I wasn't just lazy any more, I was fighting the repressing confines of pathological and idiotic societal rules of decency.
I had flower power, baby, all shooting out between the ever-lengthening hairs I hid beneath my arms. Or at least that's what I told myself when I suddenly caught a glimpse of my new little shag rugs.
Days morphed into weeks, and weeks have turned into months and still, eventually has not yet arrived. Meanwhile my pit hair has continued to grow like a wild fire out of control.
Heck, at this rate I'm looking into beading the little suckers so that every time I shake my arms the sounds of music waft sweetly from underarms.
My husband thinks this is wholly unacceptable. He doesn't understand why my legs are smooth and my nethers groomed, my pits remain an abomination. Apparently since I wax southern parts, I should wax the northern parts. I've told him the day he leans over and rips out his own armpit hair using nothing but his teeth is the day I will willingly sign up to have my pit hair waxed.
Until then, it's free-range and nature at it's very best under these arms.
Granola anyone?
I'm rebelling against a society husband that dictates that in order for me to be sexy, I have to have silky smooth armpits. If Boo can walk around with woolly underarms and enough back hair to make a grizzly bear envious and still be considered sexy, why not me?
I think he's threatened by my follicular abilities, truth be told.
Ignore the dictates of society and embrace the undercarriage fluff I tell you. It's freeing. Even if it is a little sweaty.
This is womanhood at it's best hairiest. I mean what is sexier than seeing the deodorant ball up and form little white beads dangling on the end of the grass growing under a woman's arms?
I'm taking a sabbatical from the war on fuzz and welcoming the pelt I've cultivated under my arms. That's right, I'm saving the environment one razor at a time. I'm sacrificing tank tops and short sleeves all in the name of saving the world.
I'm doing this for you. You can thank me later.
Raise your hand if you're with me.
Anyone?
This post has been brought to you against the wishes of my husband.
I should apologize to him.
But he stole my last razor.
When Tanis Miller isn't writing on her blog Attack of the Redneck Mommy she spends her time beading errant chin whiskers.
