I hate shaving my legs.

I hate that in order to be perceived as pretty and feminine, I have to shave my legs.

I would like to wear shorter skirts, but those scraggly little black hairs stop me.

I hate everything about shaving my legs.

I hate razors.

I hate shaving cream.

I hate soap.

I hate the first shave after a long time.

I hate having to shave my legs twice in one week.

I hate shaving my legs in the shower, and all the soap runs off before you can get anything done.

I hate shaving my legs in the sink, standing on one leg and lunging like some sort of over-compensating rocker.

I hate twisting myself into a pretzel in the bathtub, trying to reach that elusive bit on the back of my upper calf, only to have my heel (which is braced on the soap shelf) slip at the last second, sending me spinning in this horrid, luke-warm soapy bathwater like Alan Moore did in his grave after seeing the movie of League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

I hate shaving my legs.

On a related note, I hate waxing my legs.

But ask me sometime about the time Tyne and I tried waxing Chad's chest.

I rather liked that.

YOU FREAK OF NATURE!

So my mother called today, as she often does on a Sunday, and we started talking about DEATH.

(You have to say it like that, DEATH, with wide serious eyes.)

(DEATH.)

So we started talking about DEATH. My roommate's mother is dying, and her father died a couple of years ago (at almost the same age as my dad is now), and my parents' neighbour just died, and their other neighbour is not long for this world.

We were also talking about DEATH because a couple of days ago my parents phone was off the hook....ALL DAY. Now, as the child of now officially elderly parents, I had a little bit of a freak out and called their (still alive) neighbours to go make sure they weren't dead.

They weren't dead. Their phone was though.

(They made fun of me a lot. With their caps lock on and lots of exclamation points. Elderly jerks.)

And we started talking about my dad's folks, who died Way Back in the Day. His dad died in his sixties, and his mom in her forties.

The conversation then took this turn:

"Well, you know honey, your dad should be dead right now. His parents both died young. By all accounts he should be dead by now--WHY THE HELL ARE YOU STILL ALIVE YOU FREAK OF NATURE?!"

To which I could hear my father distantly chortle: "....hurrhurrhurrhurrhurrr..."

At which point my mother politely told me she needed to go because her friend was singing in a choir and goodness look at the time...