“I wonder if I should trim my legs before the funeral.”
They are noticeably hairy, having performed no kind of hair removal on them (other than a couple of days of wearing KT Tape) in approximately two months. I will be wearing skirts above the knee. To much of my family and home religious community — relevant for a church funeral — this is a significant social faux pas, possibly to be interpreted as disrespect for my grandmother.
Which, yes — ridiculous. It’s just my legs being my legs, after all. But at some point the hassle of responding to the judgment outweighs the hassle of taking the beard trimmer — not a razor, dear Flying Spaghetti Monster, never going to be a razor again — to my legs.
There is a part of me that prickles at the sake of conforming to beauty standards simply because it’s socially easier to conform to said beauty standards, rather than because I get anything actively positive out of it. In fact, I will actively miss my leg fuzz while it’s gone, though I know it will grow back. However, for the sake of minimizing the passive aggressive friends and family nagging — I do not need it, not now — it is a bargain I am willing to make.
“You could always wear stockings,” my husband offers. As in, pantyhose. I am sure he knows my answer before he makes the suggestion.
“Fuuuuuck that!”
[By Tranquil Garden (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html), CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/) or CC-BY-SA-2.5-2.0-1.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5-2.0-1.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons]
