When my husband and I first met, we were impressive people to each other.  Always appearing impeccably groomed and well dressed; we didn't belch or fart; we didn't eat too much; we worked out six days a week and we were both in top physical shape.  Basically, we put on a good front.

When my husband and I first moved in together, we peed with closed bathroom doors, woke up to each other with minty fresh breath, left love notes on pillows, cooked elaborate dinners, and kept a tidy house.

When my husband and I were first married, we called each other Mr. and Mrs., made no decision without each other's input, made plans for the rest of our lives, had lots of sex, and kept up with well groomed traditions.

Fast forward ten years and three kids.  Bathrooms might as well not have doors, as they are never used.  Bodily functions are no longer held in.  Preparation H and Compound W sit openly on bathroom counters.  Grooming has taken a back seat.  For that matter, so has showering everyday.  And while we're at it, so has sex.  Working out has become a subject of fairy tales.  Notes to each other mostly contain 'pick up milk' and 'upstairs toilet clogged'.  Dinners include whatever can be made in twenty minutes.  Most clothing has some sort of paint or puke stain on it.  Planning anything further than next Tuesday is laughable.  We call each other lots of things, but these no longer include Mr. and Mrs.  A good hair day is the equivalent to actually having brushed your hair that day.  A tidy house is like playing make believe or when company is coming over.

My grandparents were married for forty seven years.  Forty seven!  That may have been forty seven years of love.  But now that I'm married, I think it was more like forty seven years of patience.

My husband and I do not partake in as many date nights as we probably should.  Any family with small children can attest to long, sleep deprived days.  And while the days are long, the years are short.  I don't think that going back to dating my husband will bring back all the courting niceties that we practiced ten years ago.  But a closed bathroom door now and again would most certainly add to the mystery.

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My husband once dated a woman who plucked her leg hair.  Plucked!  I'm too lazy to pluck my own eyebrows.  The time commitment to pluck one's legs alone is impressive (bordering on compulsive).  They were, apparently, the softest legs he ever touched.  I take no offense to this as I'm on the twice a week shaving schedule, and after being together for ten years, my need to impress has diminished.

Womens constant battle with hair removal fuels hundreds of conversations.  Waxing, Nair, No No, shaving, threading, plucking, sugaring, lasering.  The options are endless.  Unfortunately, the options don't work for all.  

I have heard from friends that the No No is a big no no.  Waxing involves actually growing the hair out, which is counterproductive, especially when trying to get your sexy back in a short skirt.  Lasering is expensive and painful.  Sugaring leaves me craving sweets.  Plucking is both time consuming and uncomfortable.  Nairing your nether parts will leave you fanning your nether regions.  Threading, well, I can't even sew a button on a shirt, so I'm not sure how that all works.

Years ago, before legally binding myself to a man whose ability to leave me is much too expensive to consider, I had smooth legs everyday.  Everyday!  I am curious, if I could track all the time I have spent removing hair, how much time that would add up to?  I'm convinced that the time I have spent removing unwanted hair could have been better spent, say learning belly dancing or how to actually sew buttons on shirts.

As if the concentration of hair removal in the most obvious areas wasn't enough to contend with, we're also responsible for landscaping.  Oh how I envy the 70's!  Not to mention the stray eyebrows that seem to be popping up more and more.  Now I not only have to remove the hair from my legs, armpits, and bikini line, I have to utilize a magnifying glass in a well lit mirror to remove the little buggers that have planted themselves on my chin, neck, or nipple.

Seriously girls.  Enough is enough.  I'm finding my twice a week schedule hard to keep up with at this point in my life.  Which leaves me only a few options.  I can say to hell with it all, stop the madness, and don self made leg warmers for the summer.  I can move to one of the cities in Europe that embraces a natural gal.  I can prepare myself to never have sex again with my husband.  

Not one of the above options is really feasible.  Which sucks.  Mainly because I will spend the rest of days in an attempt to remove unwanted hair.  With all the scientific advances of today, you would think that the ability to grow a female embryo to have hair free legs, armpits, and bikini lines would be an option.  Or at the very least a supplement women could take to be rid of hair in unwanted places.  I don't think that's too much to ask.

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I spent a large part of last year shedding pounds and getting back (relatively speaking) into shape after my birthing years.  I was doing so well and then I wasn't.  Halloween came.  Those little fun size bars attached themselves right to my ass.  Add a few more months, okay six months, of distractions (read watching Grey's Anatomy and consuming Swedish Berries) and I am up fifteen pounds.  Damn it.

Since my new years resolution of getting my ass back to yoga hadn't kicked in yet, I decided that Monday was the day.  The stars were aligned.  My favorite instructor was teaching an 8pm class, which allowed me to take Ella to dance, get the kids ready for bed, kiss them goodnight, and leave them in the hands of their Daddy.

I donned my yoga gear, albeit a little tighter than the last time I put it on, filled up my water bottle, grabbed my mat, and headed out. As soon as I entered the studio, I knew I had made the right decision.  I was instantly calmed and looked forward to the next ninety minutes of heat and poses.

As I lay in savasana waiting for class to begin, I heard an inordinate amount of giggling.  I opened my eyes and looked up just as eight twenty year old university girls enter the studio.  Eight lithe, long ponytailed, skimpy outfitted, young ladies.  

I must digress.  When I say I have gained fifteen pounds, these are not the same fifteen pounds I had gained in my twenties.  Fifteen pounds on a woman who is forty that has birthed three children looks more like thirty pounds, what with the sagging boobs and expansive hips.

Apparently the stars were not aligned.  Yoga along side eight svelte twenty year old's is distracting, regardless of whether or not they are making a sound.  

I persevered through the class, my face turning the kind of purple where you think it is going to explode, and I finished the class.  The mantra that got me through?  Fuck you twenty year old's.  Fuck you.

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