For this week’s installment of #fbf, I am re-posting about how my armpits have gained weight, because it still very much applies to my life. Enjoy, and here is hoping you don’t share my affliction!
So, I’m about to be really real here. Some of you might not be able to handle the truth bombs coming at you. Brace yourselves (do you notice that I feel the need to say “brace yourselves” almost every post? I wonder if that’s bad?).
Ready?
Here goes.
I haven’t shaved my armpits in at least a month. Probably more like two months. I know.
Super gross.
What does my poor boyfriend think of this utter disregard of my sex appeal? I know you’re all wondering. Despite the fact that he has no say in the removal of my body hair, as he does not have to spend hours doing it, he, admittedly, is not a fan. At all.
What reason do I possibly have to avoid shaving long enough to have pit hair that could rival that of Meat Loaf’s hair, circa 1977? Really, it all comes down to the fact that I’m lazy af. And, its cardigan season. Double duh.
This post really isn’t about shaving (or not shaving) armpits. No. This post is about what I discovered when I succumbed to peer pressure and finally shaved under my arms.
Usually, I don’t look to see how great of a job I am doing when I shave my pits, because I just don’t care. Normally, it’s just a quick swipe, then on to the next hairy location on my body. This morning, however, I figured I had better look, as there was a significant amount of hair there. Long hair.
After my usual quick swipe job, what I saw was equal parts amusing and terrifying. My armpits looked like a balding Chewbacca.
*Shudder*
Good Lord. I better go back over a couple (20) times.
After taking another go at it, my armpits still looked like an-in-denial-comb-over.
What the actual hell? How is there still hair there? What fresh hell is this? I have been at this for at least 10 minutes. My fingers are even getting pruney.
I went over and over my poor, now irritated pits, and still there were stragglers. No luck. It had to be my razor. After attempting to shave with my boyfriend’s questionable-use razor, I decided to do some inspecting.
WTF.
There’s still hair! What is going on? What is…What the…There is something bulbous going on. OMG.
Good God Almighty. No. Please no.
It’s the only explanation.
Some of my boobs have moved into my armpits.
Instead of migrating south for winter, my breasts decided to wait out the cold on separate coasts. That was the only explanation for the lumpy, bumpy state of my pits.
Except, after even more thorough inspection (at this point, the water has run cold, I have a crick in my neck, and I’m practically 100% prune), all of my boobs were in their usual locations. They hadn’t done much moving since I last discovered 33 is not like 23 at all.
So, what kind of debauchery was this? What was going on?
Suddenly, it hit me.
My armpits are fat.
My.armpits.are.fucking.fat.
Now, along with every other part of my body, I have to feel insecure about my damn armpits. How will I survive tank top season? It’s bad enough that I have fat wings, now this?
When I have let it sink in that I have obese armpits, I will let everyone know what my next move is. I think this might be that glaring red flag that I hear so much about.
*Did I trick ya? As much as it would be awesome if that was my hairy armpit in the above picture, it’s not. Alas, it’s the boyfriend’s. Don’t even ask how I got him to let me snap a pic of his pit…
Tag: oversharing
Save It
Oversharing. Just don’t do it. Unless you’re my close friend, I don’t need to know that your smoothie gave you the runs all day. I don’t want to try to fake concern while you are cleaning my teeth. With your hands. Gloves or not, I don’t care to be reminded that my dental hygienist was recently wiping their butt. Especially when it involved diarrhea. Just no. NO.
I was just at the grocery store and the cashier was going through the whole rigamarole of small talk: “How’s your week going? Anything fun planned for this weekend? What are ya eating for dinner tonight? You gonna eat these Spaghettios?” Just say ‘hello’, alright? I hate awkward small talk.
I swear this chick only wanted to ask me how my day was so that she could unload on me. When I asked her how her day was, she said, “I started dry heaving last night”.
Full fucking stop.
Excuse me?
I wanted to just bail, to leave my Spaghettios and moscato and block of cheese right fucking there.
Do not touch things that will be going in or around my mouth while telling me about you dry heaving. DO NOT.
Why? Just why?
I think she continued barfing up her whole horrible story about how long she puked and what color it was, but I just tuned it out, hoping the ground would swallow me whole.
Newsflash for anyone not aware: NO ONE wants to hear details about your puking. Not no one.
Now, when it comes to my close friends, it’s different. Much, much different. I don’t care if you tell me about how your quinoa hasn’t digested and it keeps making reappearances, or how when you farted in your car, yesterday, you had to pull over and evacuate. No. I love these stories. It’s incredibly amusing to laugh at my friend’s misfortunes.
It’s just different.
I also hate when cashiers, or just crazy people, sitting by you in the DMV, confuse you for their therapist. I have enough stress and drama in my own life, I don’t need to know how Bubba screwed your cousin Tammy Lynn at your wedding reception at Dave & Buster’s. What are normal-leave-me-alone people supposed to say to that? When I have to respond, I usually deer-in-headlights- sputter, “Oh, my phone is ringing” and then run for the hills.
People, randoms don’t care as much as you delusionally think they do, hate to break it to you. If your response to, “How are you?” involves a story about bowel movements and/or incest, save it, mmkay?
