Our body insecurities come in abrupt eras.
Right when you’re ready to spend another morning squeezing the whiteheads from your nose pores, you notice a hair coming out your chin.
It's like our brains are at a Friday afternoon staff meeting and are pissed off that Sharon just raised her hand to “piggyback off of what Tim just said.” It is ready to move on to the next thing until every centimeter has been plucked, scrubbed, and detoxed.
It started when noticeable nubs emerged at nine, causing me to slow my running with the diagonal criss crossing of my arms over my chest, hiding the grown-man-dizzying bounce of these mounds.
Then, it was my hair, as the girls with perpendicular tufts convinced pre-teen me that the texture of my long plaits made me look like Ms. Celie.
Next, my razor strummed along to my original tune, “Dear God, I’m Hairy All Over,” with special features by sideburns and happy trail.
But then my wax, thread, and depilatory obsession was danced off stage by the Sandman holding a tape-measure and a scale.
Will I ever complete this Tour de Corps?
Is there a moment of bliss before the menopausal resurgence of tweezing hairs, masking cellulite, and whatever else Mama hasn't yet told me?
my mirror laughs,
have you seen your knees?”