battlefield
My legs are a battlefield.
Hideous. They look like a chubby ten year old boys legs, not the svelte stems of a nearly 25 year old woman. They are marked with bruises of various sizes that are slowly morphing through revolting colors that should never speckle a young woman’s legs. And I have the pale legs of a girl that lives in Seattle and wears long pants even in the summer. I have not an inkling of a tan that could disguise and hide the nasty blue/purple color or blend with the sickly green/yellow ones. Some sort of a deficiency means I have the ability to collect and harvest bruises like dandelions in Spring; they pop up when I receive a harsh look (and I receive many a harsh look) and stay for months at a time.
The ferocious beast that is my adorable rascal dog is the culprit. Every energetic bound across my body leaves another bruise; I even have them on my chest or décolletage to the fancy folks. The skins so thin there that I don’t know how long those bruises will last. They might be permanent. And when he decides he’s gonna sleep on my legs, it’s preceded by 5 minutes of circling and sniffing for EXACTLY THE RIGHT COMFORTABLE SPOT. He only weighs 10 pounds, what am I going to do when he reaches a full maturity that is double his current weight? Styrofoam protective suit? Considering his rabid attacks on me at random times, that doesn’t seem like a bad idea.
Not only is my lower half spotted, but it’s covered with scabs and cuts all over the place from shaving. Although that may lead some to believe I have been pounding Jack Daniels before climbing into the shower to hack and fillet my stubby appendages, it’s not true. Although, the Jack Daniels could help dull the pain of Jimi’s vicious attacks. No, I just bought a different type of blades, which were to replace the previous blades that I mistakenly believed were filleting my legs – irony. My pride is too much to allow me to buy yet another pack of blades, so I suffer. And I would never use the Man’s razor because that’s just cruel treatment to his handsome face. On top of it, I hate stubbly legs, so I shave every day. I don’t even give my little legs a chance to stop bleeding and start healing; the very next day I’m accidentally ripping scabs off. Scabs from wounds that have been there for weeks, creating nice lifelong scars, ‘cause I scar easily. And drawing a nice mangle blade across previous lacerations somehow makes me sever other pieces of flesh, usually quite close to other wounds so that they form a wound warzone of pain. A warzone of pain that is ignited again when I go to rinse my battlefield legs in steaming stream of water.
Normally, I wouldn’t care. But I make an attempt to look good for the Man to make up for my un-ladylike burping. Now I’m a burper with scabby knees and bruises. And I have a shoe collection that isn’t been properly appreciated because the shoes are hidden under full length pants (there’s always a vanity issue). I purchased some nice skirts that I am now too embarrassed to wear because people with think I am paralegal by day, rugby player by night. Or a street whore who’s always on her knees. Neither is flattering. |
