Cactus legs, etc: The merits of not having a boyfriend.
As I sit here stalking the Ghostbooks of boyfriends past, I’ve just noticed my head is kind of itchy. Is it possible that the musky sweat pong I’ve been blaming on the cat is in fact emanating from my own scalp? I’ve also noticed my leg hairs have grown so long they’re ripe for picking; I could switch to waxing if I wanted to. I don’t, mind you – I’m not a masochist – I save ripping from the roots for where it counts. Which reminds me, there’s a brush-tailed possum nesting in my knickers. Might be time to move him on.
Not having a boyfriend is the best. Under no circumstances could I have achieved such an all-time personal hygiene low whilst in a relationship.
Don’t get me wrong; it’s not that dating a dude turns me into a servant to his senses… but to the extent that I’m not a masochist, I’m also not a sadist. Do unto others as you would have them do to you, as they say! Just as nobody likes a salty musk flavored lollipop for breakfast, nobody likes to get up close and personal with the sweaty pube-cave of death.
In case you’re wondering, I’m not a feral house-pig. Not most days, anyway. I am, however, a master at faking a clean mane by way of dousing it in baby powder, and unkempt leg hair can generally be hidden by a sweet tan (I live in LA, meaning I have no choice but to be tanned for about 360 days of the year). So, as long as nobody invades my personal space bubble by trying to whisper a secret or something, I’m hot to trot.
Anyway – while we’re down south, it’s also worth noting that I am currently sporting undies I snagged from Kmart about five years ago on sale. Or are they an accidental steal from Mum’s draw during my last trip back to Australia? Can’t be sure. Technically, they’re meant to be my “gym undies” – they’re wedgie-proof, marvelously comfy and offensively plain. They are also impenetrable: not only does the thick fabric protect my fanny from the wrath of the spin bike, but their aesthetic could repel a penis from a mile off.
Aside from letting myself go physically, I’ve found that not having a boyfriend opens up space in my schedule for personal dates with the internet. I can engage in cool online activities such as spending an hour composing the internet’s most witty Tweet, or watching back-to-back YouTube videos of people falling off gym equipment.
And if I feel like the soundtrack to personal internet time should consist entirely of a throwback to my Hanson fangirl days, then it fucking can be. I might even take a break and head to the supermarket, where I can enjoy unspoken (read: imaginary) flirt sessions with hot strangers – guilt free – as I fill my trolley with only the shit that I think is delicious.
On the real: I sincerely do value alone-time (and not just with my inner cynic), such that I think I’d go crazy without it. So, there’s that. But, I mean: there’s just so much fun shit to do when you don’t have a boyfriend, and so much un-fun shit you don’t have to do… that I often wonder how the fuckity-fuck I could ever work one into my schedule again.
Oh. Think I just slashed my left leg open with the thistles on the right one. Bugger. It’s definitely time for a shave.
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