Man. I do it every winter. Every spring, I vow never again, since recovering from it is a solid hour's work. And yet here I am, the night before a wedding, deciding to wear a skirt. Which means spring is coming early to my legs.
It's the annual post-winter leg deforestation at my house.
Every damn year, I figure shaving my legs is more hassle than it's worth. I grow myself a nice little layer of extra warmth, and get an extra five minutes sleep in the morning. Usually, I can get away with it for several months. Which is terribly lazy, I know, but it's so convenient! Generally, I like having shaved legs - I enjoy the smoothness. But if nobody's going to see them but me and Jamie? Hell if I can be bothered to shave them. Jamie, bless him, doesn't give a rat's ass. He likes smooth legs but doesn't notice hairy ones, which is probably just as well.
But, given the unseasonably warm weather, I opted for a skirt and bare legs tomorrow. Which means that the annual jungle attack is a few months earlier than scheduled. There are, of course, advantages to this. The overgrowth is not as bad as usual. It's a faster job, and my legs will not be quite as shocked after two months neglect as they would be after five. And there are definite advantages to living with a boy. I stole his beard trimmer and got things down to quite a manageable length to attack with my trusty Intuition. It's much quicker and definitely cheaper than going through three razors.
That doesn't mean it's not a pain in the ass, though. Stupid leg hair.