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Monday, June 21, 2010

Mowing the Legs

As a good Southern girl, I pretend to shave my legs regularly. I don’t mean I’m pretending to do it. I mean I don’t do it and then lie about it. It’s a little rule I have to improve the quality of my life. I don’t eat oysters, wash and wax my floors, or shave my legs in months that contain an R.

Times are changing, though. Instead of doing the floors, I just refinance and move when they get dirty. And forget about the R--these days I don’t eat oysters in any month that has a BP in it.

As far as legs go—and at 5’2” tall, mine don’t go very far—I find that a nice pantsuit is acceptable just about anywhere these days. If I need to wear a dress, I come down with the flu—the best fashion find since stretchy pants.

I tried alternatives to shaving and I’ve learned some helpful tips that will make it easier the next time I wax. This year we used my legs for Christmas candles the whole month of December. I’m not waxing again until I’m a cadaver. The temperature of my body should cool that stuff right down and cut down on the waxy buildup that gave my legs that dull finish during the holidays.

I find that sometimes shaving my legs is like mowing the lawn. These shins have been under cover since November and all manner of vegetation has sprung up in the intervening months. Who knew Virginia Creeper could move that fast? I don’t need a razor. I need a weedeater and the industrial strength size RoundUp. With a spray hose attachment.

That first time you try and take out the Bermuda grass can be an enlightening experience. And how did that thistle sneak in there, anyway? If the Captain wants a First Mate with smooth legs, he’s going to have to bring in the heavy construction equipment. I’ve got a wilderness area that’s likely to be covered by the Environmental Protection Act.

Until then, his razor is my razor. Women don’t get equipment like this. I need something for hacking through the underbrush; say a machete attachment. It’s not fair that the people who need the mulcher the most don’t have the option.

I emptied the grass catching attachment and swept a hand down one shin to see if any bloodletting spikes were apparent.

Apparently somebody planted a cactus garden when I wasn’t looking.

I reached for the phone and dialed an emergency number. What can I say? One of the most important things in lawn care is knowing when to call in a professional.

1 comment:

colbymarshall said...

*high five* Short people rule! (5'1'" :-))