I love to shave my legs; the satiny pink gel squirting out of the can at the touch of the button, to drizzle, no dollop, it on my leg-propped up against the side of the tub-and to watch it turn white as I smooth it over my slightly nubby legs (for I have shaved them two days before).  It's winter, so no one will see my legs, unless I am wearing pajamas, but that's what makes it special: knowing that I don't have to do it, but I do.
     The razor is always important.  I like Bic disposables, not the pink ones, but the school bus yellow kind, my dad's.  I look over at the shower wall, where my expensive razor, with the guard wires, razor grip and razor cartridges are, secure with a plastic suction cup, and wonder why I ever use it.  I like the risk of a little blood.  I'm always careful not to get razor bumps, but a knick is cute.  I like Band-Aids; they make me feel secure.
     My legs are only beautiful because they are so ordinary.  I have big ankles and knees.  On my right knee cap there is a huge scar from when I cut it on a baseboard heater.  It adds character.
     As I'm shaving I'm thinking about a guy who works at the store where I bought the shaving cream.  He always stares at me like I'm a goddess, but he is like 20 and his girlfriend has nicer legs.  They both go to my school and have an elective with me.  She's better than I, everything she does is cuter.  He's only in high school because he has failed so many times.  He's not dumb though.  I think I love him, nearly.  But then I see his girlfriend with her flawless blonde hair and body and legs and gag, because they are so perfect together.  He is beautiful.  Everything about him reminds me of Keanu Reeves except that he has blonde hair, and is brighter, like the sun.  He's also short, but he gets a five-o-clock shadow that makes me think of steam, like the bath water.
     I glance at my body while shaving, gliding the blade across my pale legs.  I'm not a goddess.  I have a rounded, curvy body of the past, when stick figures weren't admirable.  I'm done with my legs.  I carefully rinse them, sighing as I wash them with soap; they are so soft and smooth.  I stand up to wash my body.  It's too hard lying in the tub, because the water gets in the way.  I see my reflection in the mirror, as I have the shower curtain open, and am greeted with my naked, vulnerable self, mascara circles around my eyes, from rubbing them with wet hands.  I wash my face.
     Quickly, though reluctantly I end my bath by letting the drain work, rinsing off the shaving cream can, capping my school bus yellow razor and easing out of the tub.  Then I throw aside the towel lying across my bathrobe and head for my room, to write.

Good night,
Jennifer
12-5-99