I'm not shy to admit this: I rarely shave my legs in winter. I don't know why; I mean, I'm pretty damn lazy about it in the summer too and I don't have the leg-hair colour to be lazy. I was self-conscious about shaving in my youth--my youth being about four years ago--but my thirties have brought with it a laissez-faire attitude towards leg hair. My mother can't completely understand this: "how difficult can it be to shave your legs once a week?" But when you have limited time and you can use said time to google about Chinese literature of the nineteenth century (that's what I like to tell people I'm doing. I'm really googling for upcoming tidbits on Grey's Anatomy, but that doesn't make me sound nearly as smart), you're going to use it to read up on critiques of Yan Fu.
But returning to the clinic has made me remove my trusty razor from its lady-like case and sit on the edge of the tub to freshen up for my currently-unnamed RE (I'm trying to think of a clever name for the clinic and for my RE that holds him in complete esteem--he is, after all, the man responsible for getting my knocked up the first time. He deserves a name that is clever and dashing. He really is an all-around great guy who not only rocks the speculum but also doles out good advice and assuages fears).
Which begs the question--why does the RE deserve silky legs while my husband gets the forest? The RE gets the whore and my husband gets the earth mother. Nu? I was really not feeling quite right about this--the fact that I'm shaving for a man that I don't care what he thinks of a well-trimmed no-no spot but I'm not shaving for a man that I still try hard to seduce on a nightly basis.
But it comes down to this. Josh is the one who shares the carton of ice cream with me. He's the one who gets to eat off my fork or who gets all of my wilted, rejected vegetables out of my pho placed on his plate. He's the piece of flatware you save when your mum is redoing the kitchen and orders all new dishes. He is home. He is comfort. He can have strawberries and whipped cream placed on him just as easily as he can a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And a dish like that is love.
Whereas my RE is the good china. He's the guestware. He's the formal dinner--the one that is nice every once in a while but never makes you comfortable. You need to go to those formal dinners from time to time and woo the boss; that's how you get ahead in this business. But you don't hold warm feelings towards those plates. They're not home. They're not slippers and comfort food or baby doll nightgowns and champagne. Not that I wear baby doll nightgowns or drink much champagne. But I'd like to be the type who wears baby doll nightgowns and drinks champagne while wearing tons of gooooooooold. So let's just pretend.
So, yes, the RE gets silky legs. But Josh gets them entwined through his as we sleep. So I think we all win in the end. Except for me who has to step away from googling Chinese literature in order to shave them.
How far do you groom for your doctor?