I’ve been putting off shaving my coochie-coo (why do I call it that?) for awhile. Okay, and by “awhile” I mean, like, months. Since I’ve been so freakin hot, I’ve slept outside of the covers, usually hugging them close like a body pillow. The other morning, Chris walks in to wake me up and he starts giggling. It struck me then: all he probably sees is bush and belly.
I mean, you know, it’s not like I enjoy shaving. I hate every second of it, except for the very last one, because that one means IT’S OVER and I can move on with my life. I’m one of those women who has been known to let her leg hair grow all winter because fuck, who’s gonna see them hairy sticks when I’m wearing pants anyhow? So my little pubes have been growing wildly, doing their curly thing, and it’s finally at a point where I was like OKAY ENOUGH OF THAT and decided to see just how fun shaving there while pregnant is.
Oh, fun. Right. Well, “fun” is not the right word at all. More like “an awesome adventure of mythical proportions” — because I can’t see anything past my belly, and I can’t bend over enough to pretend like I can anyhow, and the whole “standing on one foot in the tub with a razor near my girly bits” thing is pretty much me tempting fate. I realized, after three firm pulls of the razor, that doing this blind was probably a horrible idea and I should stop if I wanted to save my sanity. But then, I decided there was no way I could leave the job unfinished; I mean really, I might not be able to see the carnage I’d wreaked so far with those three strokes, but my husband definitely would be.
So there I am, shavin’ blind. And I start laughing, because this is just ridiculous — if it’s this hard now, how much worse will it get? Am I going to have to go see a beautician later in pregnancy and be like “yo, shave my coochie because I ain’t suffering through a wax”, or am I just going to have a giant furball down there when Maia arrives? “I see her head! Oh wait, that’s just your MASSIVE BUSH.”
When I finally finish and step out of the washroom, Chris is walking around the house with his work clothes still on, except his shirt is pulled up over his stomach. Seriously. Why? He sheepishly explains that he was scratching it, but I have my doubts and I think he was probably parading around pretending to be pregnant (because that makes more sense, right?) Anyhow, I explain my adventure to him between fits of laughter, and the first thing he says is, “Don’t you have a mirror somewhere?”
I was pissed I didn’t think of that first.
So I punched him.
It’s good to be married.