It’s raining, not a lot, but enough to deter me from trekking down to Dolores Park for the Hunky Jesus Contest, which is too bad because it’s rare that I get to see men in loin cloths (yes, even in San Francisco). I’ve just finished my second week at MoJo and have found it increasingly difficult to write ANYTHING; even a grocery list seems somehow out of reach. Which is weird because times of transition often prove to be the most fruitful in terms of creativity. I get so excited (and so…scared! (damn you Saved by the Bell, you’ve ruined that phrase forever)) by all the commotion that I am suddenly inspired to write sonnets about this new line of underwear designed to look like you’ve been bush-whacked. It’s called, creatively, Hairy Underwear, and includes not just the above-pictured, but hairy chest tanks, hairy leg tights and armpit hair shirts that would make even a Yetti balk in embarrassment. I can say that because there was a three-year period in my early twenties where I didn’t shave anything. Boy, was I empowered. I see your patriarchy and raise you an armpit of wiry dismay! And this was before I became a devout practitioner of yoga. Really though, I was mostly just lazy.

Before I went reverse-Britney with the razor, I was, at best, a bi-monthly shaver. It grows right back! How annoying is that? At best, you get like six hours of smoothness before the stubs come in. It’s like that Greek myth that I always reference and then immediately forget…hang on, googling…Sisyphus! Pushing that endless rock up the mountain, only to have it roll back down again. That’s the beauty standard for modern womanhood right there. Except we never actually get the boulder to the top of the mountain because we’re too concerned that our tattered frock makes us look “hippy.” That, or you know, it’s actually impossible to achieve the standard of never-aging, big-boobed waifishness. Whatever you prefer.

I’ve never been too concerned with the culturally-sanctioned ideals of femininity, hence the not shaving. And the fact that I could sooner tame a wild elephant by whistling the Star Spangled Banner than draw a straight line on my eyelid. It just never struck me as something I wanted to spend any time on. Besides, even on those rare occasions when I put my lashes into that tiny guillotine, no one has ever complimented me on the “optimum curl” of my eyelashes. So where’s the pay-off? Aside from marking your territory with lipstick smudges, which does seem kind of fun, like paintball but without the pain! Of course, it’s not like I’m really saving myself time in the mornings by not wearing make-up. I’ve instead filled that time with reading stupid things on the internet, but at least I know when Lindsay Lohan’s new single is coming out! If I shaved more, I might never know these things. Sisterhood IS powerful.