Wax and Wane

The unsettling truth that I was alone in the world--no shoulder to fall asleep on in a pool of drool, no one to hold me tight as I hang out the car door puking from too much bourbon--materialized while I ran my palm over my leg stubble. Alas, no one to shave for, save my roommate and his Chihuahua. Even he is smoother than I, in regions I pray to never see, thanks to his bi-monthly Brazilians. In a regretful moment of self-disclosure I admitted to him I'd never felt the pain of such waxing. Now we have an impending "wax date", the saving grace of which is the tequila and whiskey that floweth from this spa he speaks of. Can I just go for the booze, I ask? He sadly looks at me--I can see on his face the silent question, what kind of woman am I that I can't be bothered to wax my entire nether region? A lazy, lonely one. Stubbiest of them all.

A conversation entailed the following exchange last night with a girlfriend, who coincidentally was second pick for the lead role in "Harry and the Hendersons". No joke. OK, yes--it's a joke. But she admittedly says she's taken to not shaving. Here's the synopsis:

ME: What are you doing? (I'm picking at my toe nails.)
Hairy: I just Naired my Hoo-Ha.
ME: (With surprise) Working on some sex tonight?
Hairy: No. I have a pap smear on Wednesday.

The horrid part, aside from her boyfriend standing in complete confusion as to how the gyno gets special treatment when he's left pulling hairs from his teeth, is this isn't an isolated occurrence. Do you know how many women chuck their razors and eradicating creams once a relationship lands in their laps and hunkers in for the duration? I will tell you. 80%. That's a fact. A visit to the ladies locker room at my downtown gym solidified that bit of statistical relevance, where I was momentarily nervous I wouldn't be able to find the exit without a weed whacker. I have never seen such unruly bush in vast quantity. The obvious, "I have nothing to hide attitude" made me that much more confounded as to what was happening to our sex. Both as a noun and a verb, because I'll assume the sex rate is inversely related to the growth rate. These women couldn't have been less abashed about their untrimmed trim if they had bronzed it and mounted it on a plaque to hang above the mantle.

The flip side of this is the petite nymph in the locker room at my yoga studio, stripped down to nothing but a towel, boobs waving hello to anyone within a ten foot radius. The towel was discarded and in one quick, synchronized move her delicate hand flew down to cover herself. The shame. A hairless freak amongst us. And one who is most likely being served up a nice slice of lovin' on a regular basis I'd surmise, because the fact remains that while I'm sure your gyno appreciates the yearly house cleaning, your man friend would appreciate it more. Unless his name is Moses and he enjoys the challenge of parting things to reach the other side. But in that case he's most likely eighty with impaired vision and appreciates the stubby body Braille directing him to heaven.