Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Sasquatch Lives!! Her name is Bri Potts.

This is an odd blog but one that was practically written in my mind last night before I fell asleep.  I believe when something writes itself, it must be shared - no matter how horrifying or humiliating it is for the author.  There must be a reason.  There must be someone out there who can identify with this embarrassing issue and therefore, this morning's topic will bring some sort of comfort to my hairy legged sisters in cyberspace.

As you may have gathered, I'm writing about the not-so-pleasant-to-touch topic of overly-furry-limbed girls, I being one of them.  This has been an issue with me since I was young enough to notice that I had more hair on my legs than most boys on their neatly coiffed elementary school heads.  Not only was this awful in its own right, but compared to my lovely older sister, Kathleen, who graciously pointed out that her leg hair was soft and blonde; mine was coarse and black.  Did I mention that my sister Kathy and I were bitter rivals and shared a bedroom growing up?  Not a good combination.

My 4th grade year was full of demons; the start of my menstrual cycle, Sister Mary Jose, Patrick Moriarty, and yes - body hair.  Well before other little girls, I was covered with bandages around my kneecaps and ankles not from bike falls (though I was still very much the neighborhood tomboy), but from where I was experimenting with my older siblings' razors attempting to shear off the hair and top layers of skin which grew it.  In Catholic school, the girls wore uniform skirts.  No jeans for this kiddo.  My legs were exposed in all of their Sasquatch glory.

These were also the days of short-shorts, athletic shorts which came up far too high for fluffy, furry girls such as myself.  As I matured, not only did I develop horrifying heat rashes but my leg hair grew thicker and fuller.  It truly looked like my private area started mid-thigh.  Instead of choosing the nickname, "Bri",  I could have easily chosen "Bob"; however, my burgeoning size 42 boobs were beginning to make their notorious appearance.  Why was I cursed?  If I wanted to wear a bathing suit, it would - and still does - take me three go-arounds with a disposable razor and two bathtub rinses before I'm certain I can lay on my belly without embarrassing myself.  Then, of course, there's the constant razor stubble issues - the in-grown hairs, the bumps - because invariably I lose patience and shave my monster thighs in the wrong direction. 

STOP!!  STOP THE MADNESS!  I must admit, I'm starting to offend myself and these are my legs I'm writing about after all. 

The reason I started this particular blog is because last night, and more nights than I care to admit, I find it difficult to sleep unless my legs are shaved or I'm sleeping in sweat pants.  Am I the only woman who suffers from this hysteria?  If my legs are stubbly, they feel rough against the sheets and make me tend to toss and turn.  For the first two years of my marriage, I felt it necessary to warn Eric lest he slice his hand on my afternoon shadow.  Am I a freak of nature?  I can't possibly be the only woman on earth who feels this way BUT I'm probably the only woman strange enough to actually blog about it.

1 comment:

Margaret said...

The legs get shaved daily...no exceptions!