So I’m getting ready for work this morning. Or attempting to. About halfway through my shower, I realize I had thrown out my razor yesterday. (I use disposable razors. I know. Environment. Anyway.) So I climb my soaking wet ass out of the shower, crossing my soapy fingers that I don’t slip and break my neck. What? Would you want to explain that to the paramedic? Anyway. I digress. I open the cabinet under the sink and commence to rummaging around for a new razor. Much to my chagrin, I’m all out. How could I have overlooked this?! HOW?
I stood on the purple bathmat, shook my dripping fist to the heavens (or to my horribly tiled ceiling) and cried out, “What about my armpits?! HUH? WHAT ABOUT MY ARMPITS?!”
Grumbling a stream of expletives, most of which most assuredly included some iteration of “fuck” or “sonofabitch,” I climbed my angry ass back into the shower to finish.
Here’s the thing. My armpits aren’t that fucking bad. I mean, there’s a super faint just barely there stubble. But I’m paranoid about that shit. I always have been. I’m wearing a short-sleeved shirt today, and I’m hyper-conscious that I haven’t shaven my armpits today. Like, the fucking world is going to end if I raise my arm and someone sees the microstubble! Quelle horreur! I will be the talk of the water cooler. Just what I’ve always wanted.
This is a buncha bullshit!
Yeah. I began to wonder, as I applied deodorant to my
freshly shaven armpits, where this fixation came from. Was there a starting point, from whence I adamantly believed that the key to good hygiene and social acceptance was an armpit as smooth as a baby’s ass? (Preferably one without diaper rash. Rashes are the worst.) And it hit me! I had my light bulb moment. The clouds parted, angels sang, baby unicorns frolicked and wept.
Jennifer. This is all Jennifer’s fault. I even remember her surname. But I’m not going to tell you. No! That wouldn’t be polite.
Jennifer was like this 8 foot tall third grader. Was it third grade? I don’t remember. I only remember the school, so it was definitely somewhere between second and fifth grades. She was poor, wore hand-me-downs and giant, too large for her face, pink spectacles. Worst of all, she had terrible hygiene. I’m talkin’ bad breath and B.O. I felt sorry for her then, because people made fun of her. On the regular. She was an okay girl, awkward, a bit too loud, but really just desperate to be liked. She was sweet. And kinda smart, too.
I remember one day she had forgotten her pencil. Or the lead had broken on hers. Something like that. No one near her wanted to lend her one. So I offered her one of mine. And it was then. My armpit fixation began right then and there in that elementary school classroom. Because as Jennifer leaned over and extended her arm over to me, all the armpit hair in the world spilled out from the short sleeve of her top and reached for me. I swear a burst of air from the AC set it to wriggling and waving in the breeze. It waved at me…
Of course, I realize now that she was too young to be shaving and had hit puberty before the rest of us. Or else she was older and repeating grades. I’m honestly not sure which. I also realize now, which – to my credit – I had also realized then, her hygiene problems were not her fault. But I’m also strangely thankful to her for the complex she gave me that day. I – and all of my coworkers – should be thankful to her for making me aware of good hygiene practices. (Not that there’s anything actually wrong with a woman having unshorn body hair. But that’s a topic for another day.)
For now, thank you Jennifer. We all thank you.
P.S. This is the third post I did, well including the weirdass ranty “about” one. Way back on September 8. (I know, it’s been like soooo long. Ohmygosh. *flips hair*) And I’m being a lazy bitch and using it for filler since my brain is numb from Too Much Work Drama. Anyway. I thought I’d use this one, because I clearly haven’t told enough of you about my armpits. You’re welcome.