Happy Shaving Day

I hate to shave my legs. In fact, I've never met many women who would say differently. They probably all hate to shave my legs - and maybe even thiers.

I have been homebound somewhat this week because of the hives. I couldn't put on pants because as soon as the material touched the back of my legs when I sat down, the friction would start bringing out the hives. After a few days though, shorts were no longer an option either.

Today, however, there are things I must do and so I slathered on 2 inches of shaving gel and sorta, kinda, maybe got some of the hair off of my legs so that I could leave the house. If you see me though, don't look too closely because it was a very cursory job. Not to mention that I have bruises on my legs just from scratching.

So I leave you with a new appreciation for shaving and a post from the beginning of my blog which is called The country hick in the big city bathroom.

This all-to-true story happened a couple of years ago at the Alabama Bar and Grill in Opry Mills Mall, Nashville, TN. I was there with Jacob and he was 5. Certainly not old enough to send into the men’s room by himself. So I take him into the ladies room, put him in a stall next to me and tell him to STAY there till I come to get him. I go into my stall, do my thing, come out, wash my hands (cleanliness first) and stand by Jacob’s door to wait for him.

And wait for him. And wait. Now this was not unusual, because he tends to get distracted and takes longer to poop than any kid I’ve ever known. So a few minutes go by and I start to get antsy. I start talking to him in a low voice.

"Are you OK?" No answer.

"Can you hear me, I’m talking to you?"

I start trying to peer through the tiny crack, but I can’t see a thing. So I speak louder.

"What are you doing in there? Did you poop? Do you need help wiping your butt?"

No answer. Just a frightening silence. Finally, I am at the end of my patience level and starting to get nervous and I get a quite a bit louder.

"If you don’t answer me RIGHT NOW, I am coming in there and you won’t like what happens when I do."

So Jacob answers me. "Boo."

From behind me. I whirl around and stare into the face of an obviously overjoyed 5 year old. I grab him and start to flee as quickly as possible. He’s screaming, "Momma, I didn’t wash my hands!"

Cleanliness is no longer a concern. Getting out of there is. As we round the corner to leave, I peek back over my shoulder to see a very frightened old lady cautiously sticking her head out of the stall. A quick "sorry for the mix-up", a wave of my hand and I am outta there.