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: weight issues
A Picture is Worth a Million Why Me's
I knew I would look fat. I mean, I would be wearing a one piece, with nowhere to hide. I knew I would look like an obese candy cane. I was prepared. It was part of the humor in wearing pajamas that 3 year-olds normally wear. But, nothing prepared me for what everyone was seeing from behind. Nothing.
The front view wasn’t so bad
And then we thought it would be cute to take a picture of our behinds, because that’s always cute. Good lawd, nothing prepared me for this:
I can’t even. My ass is huge. Huge. Not even sexy Kim-Kardashian-huge. Pregnant-Kim-huge. I mean, how come no one has never told me I had that trailing behind me? It’s terrifying. I think I might have an extra ass below my main ass. Can you see it? Meanwhile, my friend looks like Marilyn Monroe reincarnated.
I thought maybe it was just taken from a poor angle. Perhaps I wasn’t prepared. So, I tried again:
I didn’t get the sexy memo. In fact, I think I had an itch mid-picture. Notice how I’m not even turning my head around, in a sexy, “I know you’re looking” way, because I can’t. The girl on the left is a professional model, apparently. What a bitch.
Can you suck your butt in like your stomach? If so, I need to learn how.
I went home that night and drank an entire bottle of moscato, because sugar wine will help my cause. I might also have eaten the rest of the package of holiday Oreos (and by ‘the rest’ I mean almost the whole thing). Then, I realized that I didn’t buy footy pajamas to look sexy, but to be funny. I bought them to look ridiculous, then got upset when I was successful. That’s lame. So, I said, “fuck it”, and wore them again to the Ugly Sweater Wine Walk this past Saturday. I had a blast, Pregnant Kim Ass and all.
