Bodacious Boomer

Last week there was a garage sale on Evelyn’s street. As we approached the first thing we noticed that was for sale was a walker with 2 tennis balls on it. What’s with that? Can the walker manufacturers not design a walker that doesn’t need tennis balls?  Evelyn said “I guess Mrs. Smith finally died.” Mrs. Smith had owned had owned some cool old stuff that people were picking through like vultures.

I couldn’t help but think that somehow it’s sad that after you’re gone, many of the items that you cherished become garage sale fodder. Evelyn bought a cute egg platter with flowers on it. Who knows how many Easter tables that platter sat on holding Mrs. Smith’s deviled eggs. Everyone likes deviled eggs. Why aren’t they made more often?

I only bought three things- two old-looking tins and a really old straight razor. I’m guessing it’s pushing 100 years. When I told Doug I’d bought it, he looked at me with a wary eye. “Why?” was all he said. “You just never know when you’ll need one.” is all I said. Now before anyone sends out the local constabulary or the men in the white coats, I must report that over the decades the razor has lost it’s sharp edge and I have no plans to get it back. I just find it really interesting to look at something that old and think how it was once used every day.

After I bought that straight razor I started thinking about the first time I shaved my legs.  I was 12 in 1963; my dad used a Gillette Safety Razor. I’d seen my dad use it for years. It didn’t look so hard. But before I ventured near that, I thought I’d try my mom’s electric razor.  The hair on my young legs just laughed and defiantly remained, standing proud. (I should’ve taken that as an omen of things to come.)

I remember the night I decided to finally use my dad’s razor. I waited til everyone else was finished in the bathroom and with great purpose strode in, confident I would emerge successful, with silky smooth legs. Well I was successful alright, successful in filleted my calf, that is. The razor slipped in my hand and I cut the wazoo out of my leg. I don’t remember it hurting. (Perhaps I I was too traumatized by all the blood.)  I looked like I’d been in a knife fight; and I was too embarrassed to ask my folks what to do. So instead I sat in the bathroom for an hour pressing the profusely bleeding cut with toilet paper and putting baby powder on it again and again, praying that no one would need to use the bathroom. Looking back now, I realize that I looked like I was visiting Theodoric of York, Medieval Barber.

That was over 40 years ago now. Of course I’ve tried every other method as well, waxing, depilatories, everything, but I always come back to the razor. I’ve heard that as you get older you get less hairy, but I’ve not experienced that- not yet anyway. If I didn’t shave my legs and pluck all the bizarre hairs that pop up all the time from my face,  I could be mistaken for a Yeti after a week or two.

I must admit that since Doug and I have been couch sleeping for 3 weeks now, I’ve become lax in my deforestation efforts. So in an effort to get caught up I decided to shave my legs Sunday morning since we’d be driving home for a few hours and I put my feet on the dash. No problem. The problem is where I decided to do it. I was in one of those little shower pods at the Motel 6. There was bad light and nowhere to put my foot up so I just did it all by feel. I was practically standing on my head while doing it. Big mistake.  This time I got my ankle. I seem to be a slow learner.

Maybe I can just convince Doug that I’m Mother Earth and I could just let everything go and become a woolly mammoth or an earth mama.

Then again, maybe not. How often do you do your legs?- and just high up do you go?