65 degrees or the gynecologist.
Pretty much the only two things that would prompt a Northwest native to shave her legs. In March.
Today’s high? 47.
Shaving legs was clearly part of the fall of man. I blame Eve.
And apparently I am out of practice. I was doing oh-so-well until I slipped and the side of the razor made a precision slice down the back of my calf. I tried to capture a picture of the wound for a visual to add interest to the blog, but failed to find a flattering angle for my sturdy Norwegian calves, so I tossed that idea out completely for all our sakes. You’re welcome.
When the Dr. tells you that once they remove all your reproductive parts you won’t ever have to see the gynecologist again, he’s lying. Apparently once they’ve removed everything there’s a really good chance the whole structure is compromised and you’ll need a construction crew in there to shore up the framework. Lovely, right?
In short, I am shaving my legs in anticipation of having to dress down at the Drs. office. Oh how I would rather it be because I am heading to Hawaii!
Tomorrow I intend to give myself a pedicure in preparation for my upcoming MRI’s.
Yes. It matters.