deforestation.

It's Thursday night, and I do not want to shave my legs.

This is the schedule of my existence: Monday thru Friday evening, I live a miserable Josh-less existence, spent going to work, pining, attending my wine classes, pining, and calling him up on the telephone and pining for him out loud to him. Friday afternoon, I leave work early and drive one hour and forty minutes to Raleigh. Upon my arrival in Raleigh, I spend wonderful quality Josh-full time. At 7:30 Sunday night, I sigh that I have to go soon. At 8:30 Sunday night, I say I have to go. At 9:30, I say that I really have to go, and at 9:45, I leave. Then I drive the hour and forty minutes back (stopping in Mebane to get gas and a snack). Upon my arrival home, I call Josh again to tell him that I got home safely before I pass out in my bed, only to wake up Monday morning, my heart heavy with Josh withdrawal.

You'd think I was sixteen years old.

Oh, don't worry. I know that it is ridiculous. I am fully aware that it is high school all over again. I don't care. I have the benefit of high school romance without making all the stupid mistakes that I made in high school. I make new, adult mistakes.

Mondays are the worst. Tuesdays still suck pretty bad. I start to see the light of the weekend on Wednesday, and by Thursday, I am excited because I am so close to going to Raleigh again that I can actually do prep-work. I always intend to pack on Thursday nights, but I get lazy and don't. I do shave my legs on Thursday nights. Probably the only advantage to a boyfriend you see once a week is only having to shave that often.

But now it's Thursday, and it's starting to get to be the time when I usually head to bed, but I haven't shaved my legs yet. And I don't particularly want to do it. Every time I shave my legs, I'm again amazed that it only took twenty minutes or so and wasn't really that painful. It's just getting up the impetus to do it. I am tired. I had a long day at work. I just did this crap last week. Et cetera.

I can't pretend that he won't notice. If you're not familiar with the afflictions of dark-haired females, let me just tell you that a lack of body hair is not something we suffer from. And, nice boy that he is, he'll probably pick my poor tired feet into his lap and rub them tenderly while I gaze adoringly at him, and then he'll cut his finger on my stubbly ankle hair. I suppose I could just not let him massage my feet, but what kind of a solution is that?

It's not as if he would care. He would laugh and say, "Stubbly Sandra" and then keep going. He's had serious girlfriends before, he knows the deal. He knows that girls don't have pillow fights in their underwear, he knows that we burp and sweat, and he knows that we don't shave regularly in the winter. He understands that if he is in the position to see a girl's legs in the winter, then he is in a position of privilege and he can't go complaining about the state of things.

But I am afraid to not shave. Not because he will care, but because it will seem to me that the honeymoon is over. Not the literal honeymoon, just that sweet time in the beginning of a relationship when everything is new and you still always want to be at your very best around the person. I am more than comfortable enough with him to let him see my legs unshaven, it's just the fact that I still want to be special for him.

Maybe it's too late for all that, and razors or not, the honeymoon is over. That's not so bad. I know people who call it boring, but there's a lot to be said for being completely comfortable around someone. I suppose I shouldn't worry about having hairy legs around a guy who has seen me throw up. And I admit to being strangely charmed by the way he picks his nose in front of me. I just want the best of both worlds: a man who doesn't make me feel like I have to shave my legs, but for whom I still want to.

And now that I've made you all nauseated from the syrupy state of my relationship, I'm going to go shave my legs, because it's Thursday, and I am in love.