A field guide to growing up without growing apart
Oh Brother. Where, oh where to start. I’ve written here and there about him on this blog already but writing an entire post on my favorite (and only) brother seems ridiculously daunting. He and I go way back, back to when he was born and […]
Summer is here! And so is our favorite time of the month when all four of us come together to discuss the same topic. This Monthly Condition post is more of a survey than a question, asking each of us princesses a few questions about […]
I hate shaving my legs.
You know how most girls have that story of stealing their mother’s razor when they were young because they just couldn’t wait to become a woman? Or that beautiful moment when they learned how to slide the delicate blades against the grain for the first time? To them shaving seemed so glamorous, so feminine, so grown up. Shaving your legs was a magical rite of passage, one that everyone waited their entire childhood for. Well, everyone except me, it seemed. I was the girl whose mother hated hair removal, warning me that once I trimmed that beautiful preteen leg hair it would grow back darker, thicker and uglier forever. My mother barely used her razor, opting instead to head over to her friend’s salon once a month for a wax, though she made sure I knew it hurt like hell every time. Before I was 10 my brain was programmed to know that leg hair removal was the worst part about being a woman, that once I started I’d be tied to long showers, prickly spikes and wasted paychecks forever. Leg hair was a curse that we had to work everyday of our lives to rid ourselves of, and though I managed to stave off the dreaded razor until I was almost 16, my friends held an intervention before a school dance and there was no going back.
From then on I more or less kept up like I should, shaving every other day in the summer and dutifully before special occasions. In the winter I shaved before basketball games or hot tub parties, but on days (or weeks) when I knew I could, I’d wear long pants or tights to spare myself the extra 20 minutes of shower time. Shaving my legs was something I did for other people, though I always felt like there were so many better ways to spend my time than removing something that would grow back in a few days.
This spring I got my legs waxed for the first time. I’d been meaning to try it for a while, so when my mother suggested we go to her friend’s place I was excited. Could this be a viable alternative to the time suck that is shaving? It was slightly embarrassing to lie there on the table and talk to a woman who knew my mother’s leg hair so well that she could compare our growth patterns, but it was also nice to be able to ask questions and talk candidly with a person who’d heard about me all my life. She was done in an hour and yeah, it definitely hurt, but it also felt wonderful, like a purge of the guilt I’d usually have to feel for ignoring the razor for the next three weeks.
When I asked how soon I could come back she shook her head and told me that waxing was for people who liked their leg hair, that if I didn’t enjoy the regrowth then waxing wasn’t for me. At the time I didn’t understand her, dismissing the idea that it was even possible to think of leg hair as anything but the enemy, but over the next few weeks I found myself doing just that, beginning to appreciate the soft, light, beautiful hair that was growing back. Now that I was growing it out for a purpose (it has to be long enough for the wax to grab hold), I allowed myself to let go of the shame I used to feel on no shave days and actually start to take pride in it. Yeah, my hair is long, I’d tell myself, but I have an appointment to get it waxed next week. There is nothing I can do about it, so there is no point in hiding until then. Waxing allowed me to put the burden of my leg hair on another person, freeing me to live my life independent of my hair. Guys I’m serious, just like that the guilt is gone, and I love it. I don’t think I’ll ever go back.
It’s not that I mind having smooth legs; I love the way hairless feels as much as the next person. And it’s not that I’m trying to shock people with my feminist leanings or hippie standards, though I’m completely in support of people who do. The simple truth of it is that I don’t mind my leg hair, and when I remove it I’m usually not doing it for me. So what happens when it matters to a potential mate? I’ll deal with it then, it’s not like choosing to shave or not to shave is a permanent choice. I know I’m not shaving for my friends, it’s not like they’ll ditch me for a little fuzz. And as for strangers, sure smooth legs would help me fit in, but I would also fit in better if I never wore high heels; that sure doesn’t stop me from the occasional night out as a 6’1” woman.
For me, most days the payoff for shaving isn’t worth it. The thing is, apparently what I do with my leg hair isn’t only my business.
I went to an outdoor concert festival this weekend and finally got to wear one of my summer dresses that had been patiently waiting for me all winter. It was a scorching day, pants or tights weren’t an option and since my waxing appointment isn’t until next week I decided there was nothing to do but embrace my hairy legs. It felt good, I still felt attractive and if anything it made me feel more confident, that I was secure enough in myself to do what I wanted and not what I felt other people would want me to do. It was empowering and freeing and something that didn’t matter. Seeing a little leg hair isn’t the end of the world.
But of course, while merrily dancing and minding my own business I heard the group of late 20-something women nearby me start to gossip about my leg hair. Minutes after the lead guitarist had made a moving toast that happiness is all that matters, the three women circled up and proceeded to tear me down. The music was loud and they were pretty drunk, so I don’t think they thought I could hear, but seeing as they were about a foot away there wasn’t much I could do but listen in.
“Oh my god, do you see her leg hair? That’s ridiculous. Shaving isn’t that hard.”
“I mean yeah I don’t feel like shaving sometimes but I NEVER let it get that bad.”
“Look how it catches the sun, just because it’s blonde doesn’t mean she can get away with it.”
“I can’t believe she left the house like that.”
“Guys can’t be okay with that.”
At the time I considered confronting them. It would have been easy to call them out on their rudeness (they had already offended the other people around us with a few swear words and valley girl exclamations), and at my lowest point I even thought of a few insults to throw back at them. “Oh I’m sorry, I couldn’t get a hold of you this morning so you could approve my body choices! You’re so right, next time I promise to find the nearest man to tell me how I should change for him.” Or “It makes sense that you would be talking about my legs because you’re so short they’re at eye level.”
But as I imagined all the ways I could put them in their place I heard their insecurities start to come through.
“Yeah, I mean no one likes shaving their legs but you know, we… we do it anyway because… because well men like it.”
“… Do you think it is true that most men don’t actually care?”
“Some men don’t care, maybe… But trust me, most care. Trust me.”
“Once you’re married or something it’s okay to let it go but that is how divorces start.”
And just like that I was sad for them, sad that these beautiful, adult women were still insecure enough that they felt like they had to shave or wear makeup or change anything to find and keep a man. As they continued it became clear that they hated shaving as much as I do, but were only attacking me because they weren’t secure enough to stop shaving themselves.
I refuse to be ashamed of my leg hair. Whether or not I shave that day or wax that week has no bearing on who I am or how I live my life. And from here on out I won’t be hiding my legs. If it isn’t important enough for me to have smooth legs that day, then I’m not going to worry whether anyone sees it. I am more than the length of my leg hair, and the more hairy legs we see, the less shocked we’re going to be about it.
Friends I’m worried. What if social media is ruining our ability to actually presently enjoy anything? On Saturday I went to this thing called Color Me Rad and even though hundreds of people were theoretically there to enjoy themselves, in actuality I was hard pressed […]
So I’m single. I have been for a while. And in my day to day life it is most often not an issue. I have great family and friends and I don’t feel I lack love in any way. I even find ways to get […]
Hello again! So as you know from reading my last post, I spent last week visiting my high school friends in California. It had its ups and downs like any vacation, and I’m really, really glad I went, but while spending the first weekend in San Francisco with two of my friends and their boyfriends (don’t worry, after living with the engaged Snow Whore and Cinderslut I’ve mastered the art of the 5th wheel), I realized something terribly sad about the world; not everyone knows the beauty of the garage sale.
“We don’t talk to strangers in the city,” he said to me seriously, annoyed that I’d even considered stopping at a women’s moving sale. “You don’t know where that stuff has been.”
We were only a few blocks from their apartment, walking back after dropping our rented bikes off around the corner and my friend’s boyfriend was tired. We’d spent all day riding through Golden Gate Park and across the bridge, stopping for scenic pictures and drinking beers at a tiny restaurant across the water. It had been a fine day really, and the rush of adrenaline I felt once I made it to the top of a hill was something I’d been missing over the last few months of my sedentary 9-5 job, but, his anger confused me. I’d been a passive guest all weekend, going with the flow staying as neutral as possible, but apparently five more minutes of being out and about wasn’t something this particular boy was willing to take, especially for something as unknown as a garage sale.
I could make excuses for him, and I know my friend (his girlfriend) must have. After all it’s not unreasonable to be grumpy and tired from a long day. I suppose that box of books I found had indeed been sitting in a garage for a few weeks gathering a few unpleasant germs. And we were only a few blocks away from their apartment, I get that I’d be annoyed if he’d stopped to impulse buy $200 dollar shoes at a pretentious designer shop.
But the thing is we were all tired. He has no excuse for his rudeness other than the plain, simple fact that he doesn’t appreciate the beauty of the garage sale. And this pains me way more than his grumpy statement.
On Garage sale days I’m out of the house by 7, doing little more than rolling out of bed and finding a baseball hat to cover up the grease. YES for not worrying what other people think! Searching through your neighbor’s possessions is by no means glamorous, so dressing down is expected, giving me the perfect excuse to wear my favorite old sweatshirts out and about. When I go with my parents they have a system down, looking up the sales on our community website the night before and planning out the best route, but my favorite part is the unexpected signs that weren’t on the list; following the neon paper directions is like following a treasure map- who knows what will be at the end?!
With garage sales it’s always a race against the clock; everyone knows the best stuff is gone by 8am. But at the same time it is a leisurely activity; we take out time to be respectful of the seller’s possessions. It is impolite not to stop to talk while you look through their boxes of old books and peruse their table of overused knickknacks. These are a person’s memories on display for you to see, and granted, none of these items are prized possessions, but you’d be surprised what people remember about their life just when you’re about to take a part of it away from them. And for those of you who say it’s all junk-you’d be even more surprised how much of what we find is actually awesome.
People have sales for all sorts of reasons: moving, cleaning out, making a few extra bucks, but many times people need to get rid of things they love but just don’t have space for anymore. People tell me ALL THE TIME that they’re just so glad to give this to a happy home! Sure, the junk is there, but so is the awesome and it’s your job to find it.
And as for the prices, they actually cannot be beat. Last weekend I got $40 worth of paper doilies, a hardcover copy of all Shakespeare’s plays in prime condition, two rolls of wrapping paper and three decks of cards for a quarter-TOTAL. And that was just one house. I’d been planning to get my mother a dual VHS/DVD player for her birthday since our Disney VHS collection is off the charts, but I’ve been dragging my feet since a player like that is $50 minimum anywhere online. Last weekend bought one with a remote for $1. The woman was so happy I was going to give it to my mother she threw in a set of gardening tools for free. I hooked it up later that day and it works perfectly. There was even another place a few weeks ago where I got the unopened first season of Gossip Girl for 50 cents (I’ll admit I lost track of that show a few years ago but no one can deny the magic of season one).
My mother goes for metal yard art, my father for CD’s to use on his radio show. I’ve heard some people do it for the resale value, I’m sure those Pawn Star TV shows have converted a few passive buyers into aggressive ones. But that isn’t why I go. I go for art supplies. I go for anything that won’t be impossible to move to my next place of residence. I go because it gives me ideas for presents for my loved ones. I go to see what other people care about. I go because you never know who you’re going to run into or what you’re going to find. I go because it’s an adventure and I so, so, SO love it.
With my parents we’re usually home by 9am, all working together to make breakfast and go through our haul. We’ve got the rest of the day ahead of us, a feeling of accomplishment already feeding our souls. Garage sales are my happy place (one of them at least) and if you haven’t found the beauty of them yet, then you’re missing out.
p.s. at the San Francisco garage sale I got two bird watching books for free that I gave to my mother for Mother’s Day. She loved them.
So I Went To California. Oh man. Where to start? A list of course! Old friends know different things about you than you know yourself. Airports/Airplanes are awesome. (So is leaving notes for your friends to find behind vending machines months later). This trip I […]
I’m on Vacation in California! Hello friendship and happiness! Okay so that isn’t really true. I’m actually sitting in my bedroom the day before I’m supposed to leave for California doing my best to avoid packing until the last possible second. Turns out there is […]
On Saturday I went to a Mormon Wedding.
Okay so that is a lie. I’m not a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints so I am not physically allowed in the temple to watch the secret ‘sealing’ service that magically binds a man and a woman together for all eternity. I have no idea what goes on inside that room, and for all the secrecy that surrounds it, I think I’m content for it to stay that way. But though I made it to the reception, I do feel like I’ve missed out on seeing a part of my friend, of seeing a glimpse of how she is when she’s alone with her love. Watching a couple walk down the aisle and look into each other’s eyes as they promise their love is a way for me to really feel like I know someone. I’m not saying it isn’t possible to understand a person if you haven’t seen her get married, but I do think I makes a difference. And besides, it’s awesome to celebrate love, who doesn’t love a wedding?
That being said, I cry every time I attend one of these celebratory occasions, and not purely out of happiness. Usually there is some loneliness or jealousy mixed in along with a panic attack about growing up too fast and realizing that nothing will ever be the same. Sometimes there’s no dancing or the awkward mother in law takes over the mike and makes the couple promise to have kids immediately. I’ve been to weddings where the groom drank so much he started crying because he thought his new family didn’t like him and the caterers ran out of food before three tables had been served. Playlists go bad, decorations clash, arch enemies are reunited, women put on their crazy eyes; the list goes on. So as theoretically awesome as weddings should be, weddings can also suck, I get that.
And according to my parents, Mormon wedding receptions are the WORST. The ones they’ve been to entail a receiving line and not much else. Apparently they’re hosted in the poorly decorated gym of a small Mormon church (a ward) and guests are provided a cup of water or lemonade while they wait to hand the couple their gift and shake their hands in congrats. There’s no flower toss, no dancing, no mingling. Little-to-no decorations, sub-par cookies and definitely no toasts. So needless to say when my old friend from high school posted on Facebook: “Anyone who wants an invitation to my wedding should send me their address!” I was less than enthused at the prospect. But still it was a wedding and when our mutual friend (and fellow non-Mormon) insisted I attend as moral support I wasn’t about to say no.
But guess what?! It was AWESOME. When we arrived there was a guest book surrounded by pretty framed pictures and gorgeous paper flowers. We colorfully inked our thumbs to stamp balloons onto a picture of empty strings and walked by tables of cake and cookies and mini pies to arrive at the dance floor where a live jazz band was playing catchy tunes. There was food everywhere and tables you could mingle amongst to talk with other guests or take a load off to watch the band. The main room was circular with large windows overlooking the mountains and the patio was open for guests to explore. Tissue paper crafts hung from the ceiling and walls, twig and lace centerpieces dotted the tables. It was breathtaking and I’ve been to a lot of weddings. Forget Polygamy, the new Mormon P-word is Pinterest.
Her husband introduced himself to us before we could even take it all in. We’d never met in person but he won me over in two seconds flat when he said, “So you went to high school with my wife? Oh wow, sorry, it’s just that is the first time I’ve said that, my wife.” He gave me the best smile ever before I died of happiness then and there. She came over for a hug and though I haven’t seen her in years it was like we’d never parted. Have I told you that her dress was short yet? It was tiered and landed just below her knee, and they’d sewn the typical short sleeve covering to the strapless top to make it more modest. She glowed. Seriously glowed.
From there the night went much like any other wedding. They did a father daughter dance, then a mother son, they even had a mood-lightening choreographed ballroom dance routine they broke into right after the always slightly awkward first dance. Still no toasts, but she threw the bouquet which broke apart into pieces as it flew threw the air, conveniently bestowing more than one member of the crowd with a promise of future love. And while us non-believers huddled fearfully in the corner, trying our best to doge the flowers of commitment, it was sweet to see her show such a kindness to her more zealous friends.
Speaking of zealous friends, here is the best part. Seeing as the temple ceremony is super special secret and only other married Mormons are allowed in, Mormons tend not to have traditional bridesmaids or groomsmen. Instead they ask their friends to wear the wedding color in support, usually allowing for more than just a few friends to feel included. Well guess who didn’t get that memo.
I swear guys, every female in the place was wearing peach or salmon or red or pink or some sort of spring orange that made the whole room match in beauty perfection. And then there was me and my friend, both of us wearing dark blue that signaled us out as not only outsiders but non-believers who didn’t know to call ahead and ask for the wedding colors.
But all was well because we’re talking about Mormons here, who couldn’t be rude if they tried. And besides, it’s fun to feel like a harlot every once in a while. Not to mention how happy I was just to be at this wonderful girl’s wedding. In high school we made her promise to hold out as long as she could and she made good, she turns 24 in a few weeks and she is the last of our Mormon friends to tie the knot.
The whole reception only lasted about two hours and I didn’t feel the need to sneak out a flask once (though we did consider how entertaining it would be to spike the punch). I love Mormons and I love weddings. It makes sense that the two coming together would be a match made in the 3 levels of Heaven.
P.s. I didn’t talk about the sex thing! A friend of mine pointed out that Mormon wedding ceremonies are generally held mid morning with the reception following much later (this one started at 6:30). She asserted that the newlyweds rush hotel/home/car to consummate their union before cleaning themselves up and heading over to their guests. I hadn’t considered that series of events and seeing as the thought of sex in general makes me blush I may or may not have slightly embarrassed myself while talking to this particular couple with that knowledge in mind. I made ridiculous faces as my rambling face said things that went a little something like this, “Congrats friends! How’s your day been so far? Get some good stuff done? Not too tired from all the activity I hope… I mean all the activities not anything in particular, you know cause wedding days are busy with more than just.. I mean you must be so excited! Not that you’re too excited…”
My name is Sleeping Booty and I’m a hoarder. Well, sort of. I like to think of myself more as a memory preserver than a junk collector, more like an information database than a maggot infested trash dump. I’m a keeper of records and saver […]
Don’t get me wrong, I love Easy A. Emma Stone was spot on and everything her parents say makes me happier than a baby monkey riding on a pig, but when my dad and I came across the movie while flipping channels this weekend he […]
When fellow 20something David asked if we’d contribute our stories to his blog, 20somethings in 2013, of course we obliged. How AWESOME is it that we can all connect like this?! We’re all so different and yet all exactly the freakin’ same. I love it. Maybe you want to share your experiences too? Sleeping Booty’s is up, which Naughty Princess will be next?!