I was in the shower this morning, when I was seized by the impulse to shave.  I have been notoriously lax about shaving, as no one has seen my bare legs (or rather, part of my bare legs) since capri season ended.  And yes, though it may mark me as a lazy, slovenly woman, I have not shaved above the knees since my day trip to Marseilles.

I could have used a weed whacker; instead, I used my regular razor and it took me at least fifteen minutes.  But here I am, newly denuded.  And the question is why?  I mean aesthetically, it was a mess, but during this time of the year even I don’t see that much of my bare skin (too damn cold).  And although I’m still engaging in low-level flirting with GSS, I really don’t foresee any action there.  In fact, there is nothing on the horizon.  So why shave?

Maybe I just got sick of acting like there was no hope.  Subplots on How I Met Your Mother aside, when a woman doesn’t shave (barring political/philosophical statements), it functions as a big why bother?, a sign that you find it impossible that anyone is ever going to want to sleep with you again (at least in the near future).  Maybe I just got sick of giving up.  I don’t know.  All I know is that this minor victory will be moot in a few days, since not only will the hair grow back (as it always does), I do not foresee myself having that kind of ambition in the last 4 weeks of the semester (counting finals week) to spend extra time in the shower, shaving my legs.  Hell, that would mean giving up five minutes of sleep.