Monday, January 03, 2011
The Line of Demarcation
At what point does "I haven't shaved my legs" become "I don't shave my legs"? I glanced down at mine this morning and for just a moment thought a hobbit had borrowed my nightgown.
In one or the other of her recent books -- I've read both and don't remember which. Like Nora, I feel bad about my neck, and I remember nothing, which makes things confusing -- Nora Ephron talks about spending eight hours a week on "maintenance." I don't think she's talking about sinks, but that's the only maintenance I've done lately.
We don't need to go into the gory details of my decision to replace the kitchen faucet and garbage disposal the day before hosting my entire extended family for Christmas dinner. It's enough to tell you I could have shaved my legs, arms, face and head in the time I struggled with that mess. I could have had a manicure, a pedicure and maybe even cured a minor disease or two. I could have had my hair highlighted, if only I still highlighted my hair. Lord, I could have had a facial. I remember facials. Dimly.
Instead, I have a permanent crick in my neck from lying under the sink for hours, trying to connect faulty connections. But eventually, I had a faucet that doesn't drip and a garbage disposal that reliably disposes.
And very, very hairy legs.
Note: the photo is Mo'nique, not me. My toenails don't look that good.