It’s Tuesday, the day I tape my NY1 show, which means I am facing my weekly dilemma: To shave or not to shave. In all candor, I’ve always hated shaving my armpits though I enjoy smooth legs. And while some are repulsed by underarm hair, I find it beautiful and powerful and the source of some of my best magic (like antennae to other worlds, maybe). I also super-hate that all earmarks of adult femininity–adult female bodies, period–are so scorned and feared. I never, ever shaved when I was younger, in fact. It was only when I served as bridesmaid in a traditional Southern wedding and began working for a mean-girl tabloid that I buckled to pressure. These days I only prune in preparation for TV–which is also when I iron my clothes and hair and apply a whole layer of makeup rather than just lipstick. (I only mind the shaving.) I know there are bigger things going on in our world–like way bigger–but more and more I feel like a sell-out for shearing my precious fur. This does not mean I think other women are bad feminists when they do so; it means I am failing my personal feminism because I am modifying my body out of social compulsion rather than desire. Bottom line: Looks like I’m going to start wearing long sleeves once a week this summer.
July approaches, and peonies still preside on my bedside table though their season used to end in May. I chalk it up to the unseasonably mild weather, and complain not.
The baby doves on my fire escape are not babies anymore but also are still hanging out, peep-peep-peeping while their mother fusses over them like all the other Brooklyn mommies. Every morning as I drink my coffee I watch her nag them into flying a little further while their father observes from on high. Grace watches too, ears flattened, a burr forming low in her throat. Twice I’ve had to snatch her mid-air lest she hurl at them through the screen window; she seems to have located her predatory instincts quite nicely, thank you very much. Continue Reading →