Perhaps this blog should be filed under the TMI heading, but…it’s true. I can tell my stress level by how hairy I am.
Yesterday, somehow, all the planets had aligned, the world was spinning on its axis properly, and both kids and the dog were happy, full, and content. (My husband’s default is happy, full, and content, so I don’t usually worry about him.) The house was quiet and everyone was doing their thing. “This is my chance!” I thought gleefully. I called out: “I’m going to take a bath! Doyouneedanythingno?Okay.thanks.bye!” And I ran to the bathroom and Locked. The. Door.
And I slipped into the bath.
That’s when I realized I was at Full Yeti Red Alert! This was serious! My stress level (according to the hair on my legs) had soared beyond the green zone of Peach Fuzz, passed Winter Is Here Bitches, and even went over I’m A Hipster Naturalist to enter the Red Zone Full Alert of the Yeti Zone. In another day, I might have slipped to the highest alert yet: Aunt Martha.
It’s not a fashion thing, really. I just hate the feel of hairy legs against my yoga pants. When they’re smooth, I feel…I don’t know…fluid. Not really fluid. That sound a little gross. I feel silky. I feel like I’ve taken some time to tend to myself. Those sacred moments of taking a warm bath when you can just relax and decompress. And it’s something I’ve not been doing enough of lately. Clearly.
So. Yesterday I got my chance, and the threat level is back in the green zone.
Of course, I have three books to record in the next two weeks and Thanksgiving is coming…so I’m thinking Aunt Martha is bound to make an appearance. One cool thing about Aunt Martha, not only can she lift really heavy things and yodel, she just doesn’t care what you think about her. So maybe when she shows up, I’ll wear a miniskirt.