Unknown human tries to keep it together
Falling as an adult, a Buddhist meditation, discovering cashmere, am I a bad feminist?, another fight in a parking lot, the invention of money, a massive book, and dishonest days.
I never thought the words Sorry, I completely forgot to shave my butthole would leave my mouth, not to mention to address them to someone I’d just met. I got an appointment to get a consultation. How is this procedure? Does it hurt? How long will it take? Will the results last forever? What’s the cost?
The lady showed me around. “And this is the machine I was telling you about, it’s the latest technology,” the lady said. I was there to get laser hair removal. “So, Miss Smits? Smith? Smith?”. “It’s Smits, with an s, no h,” I clarified. “Oh, alright, Miss Smith, what took you so long to get this laser done?” I knew what the right answer was: I don’t know, you know how it is… or, It’s none of your damn business.
I looked at her. She was smiling at me, not expecting much from my answer. I took a deep breath and chose to answer earnestly.
—I’ve been battling this… Trying to like my body hair. For many years, I’ve been letting it grow. Raising my arms with my hairy armpits, as though I really didn’t mind them, even pretended to like them. Well, I don’t. I’ve been uncomfortable with this hair for a long time. I hate waxing, I hate shaving, I hate just having it there. I’ve been judging myself for being a bad feminist, for not embracing the hair. I’ve been defeated by the image the patriarchy has imprinted in me regarding my body hair. So I’ve been back and forth with this decision. No, you should try to love it a bit harder, I’d say to myself, while living discomfortly in my skin. I’ve been so uncomfortable, you know. But now I’m done. Fuck it. I just don’t like it. This is what’s happening to me. This is the reality I must accept. But I keep judging this decision harshly. Even now, fully naked in front of you. It’s hard, isn’t it? But I also think: this is the gentler choice for me. That’s why it took me “so” long. You know?
She stared at me the way anyone would look at a woman who’s just confessed to putting down a little bird, a puppy, and their entire families. Then, I added, “Sorry, I completely forgot to shave my butthole.”
Another fight in a parking lot with a guy who was trying to steal a spot we had been waiting for. After he almost ran me and my son over, and five or six lines with which he was trying to convince me he was there first, he said. “Okay. I’m not gonna argue with you.” I screamed, “Well, you already are.”
Every new day is another opportunity to be reminded of the many ways I haven’t overcome my childhood.
I fell. The way one falls when one is a kid. I tripped and hurt my knee.
I cried just like I used to when I was five or six. It’s a specific kind of sobbing, the one you produce out of physical pain. It takes me straight to that first cry, coming out of the womb. I’m sure that’s the root of it.