This week I remembered why I shave you-know-where year round. It's getting colder here in the Southern Tier of Upstate New York, and I'm inclined to stop shaving legs and underarms. But anyone who must wear incontinent or feminine protection can tell you what happened.
I have to feel clean. Clean, clean, clean! That's one of the things that makes living with a smoker so very difficult. Dusting and vacuuming are constant and can occur at the drop of an ash. As for the physical cleanliness, I have creams and powders for my face, body, and especially my feet.
All unscented and without alcohol, thank you very much. And they can't be aerosols, either, because that would precipitate an asthmatic incident.
Now that I'm on disability, I have plenty of time to wash, shower, touch up with a washcloth, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I also can return to those items of clothing that I couldn't wear to work.
The nicest being those lovely undies from Victoria's Secret. I have a perfectly prosaic reason for frequenting Vickie's. If you've ever seen my photos in the other Blogger blogs, the answer is obvious. To say that this kid is not buxom is an understatement. Vickie's puts out an enormous array of sizes, and you get to try them on, assisted by highly skilled salespersons. It took decades, but VS finally began to put out bras for people like me, whose incidentals are a little bigger than lentils.
I love the incredible variety of their panties, too, and have a whole drawer of the darned things. Some VS undies are very abbreviated, so much so that one can barely find enough material to attach the sticky surface of my intimate protection. And I can just pass by the gorgeous layouts--all attractively priced!--of thongs.
Now, I don't go out for more than 1-2 hours at a time, for the same reason I wear intimate protection. Let me tell you, even one hour is way, way, way to much time when one's nether curls are stuck to a pad and being cruelly yanked by any movement whatsoever over the course of grocery shopping or doctor's visits.
Even with the accumulated nerve damage done by 15 years of RRMS, the exquisite discomfort of those tiny hair-pulls are enough to have this person climbing the walls, unassisted by salesperson or ladder. It's enough to send me speeding home to a fast shower, and yes, some very gingerly barbering of a very delicate area.
Please, someone tell me it isn't just me.
Oh, and sorry for the visuals.