I shaved my legs.
For the past 30 years, I have left them untouched; as I felt there was never any need for them to be. They have always been smooth and shapely. Modesty aside, there have been people who actually asked if I did anything to my legs (i.e. shave) because they appear to be very pleasant. Come to think of it, these people might have been trying to tell me something – like I might need to have them shaved?
But I digress.
Why only now have I decided to shave my legs?
The decision, I would say, subconsciously began forming last August 16, 2008.
That was a Saturday, a real pleasant one by Canadian standards. My significant other made reservations at one of our favorite restaurants. It was his way of making up for not fetching me from work the night before. It was a pretty nice restaurant. Great prime rib.
It was pricey there. Even made a comment about it when he told me we were having dinner there. But he wanted to go, so we were going. First time he took me there was for my birthday the previous year. It was our first real date. Then we went there again for Christmas, which was his mom’s birthday. We were supposed to go there again for my birthday this year, but we didn’t.
It was a nice enough place that we had an excuse to spiff ourselves up. I even put on make-up and ditched my flip flops for heels. He actually had dress pants and his nice shoes on.
We’ve been together for around a year then and going out on dates was something that you took for granted especially once you start living together. So this was a nice treat for us.
We enjoyed a nice relaxed conversation on the drive going there. He even sang his current favorite song when it came on the radio.
And then things started to change when we were seated at our reserved table. He started bringing up a topic that I preferred to discuss in private. It was touchy matter and I tend to become emotional whenever we talked about it. It was about me going back home. And home was on the other side of the planet.
I kept changing the subject but he kept returning to it. Until I got to the point that I voiced out that I didn’t want to talk about it, that I was going to the washroom and when I returned, I didn’t want to hear about it.
I composed myself while I was in the washroom, determined to make this a nice evening out and not mar it with an emotional outburst. I wanted to enjoy my prime rib.
When I got back to the table, my ass barely touched my chair when he brought up the topic again. Btu this time, something caught my eyes. In his left hand, held by his fingers, something sparkled.
He remembers the whole thing better than I do, mostly because my heart pounded so loudly.
Will you marry me?
And all I could do was nod my head. And hold back my tears.
Today is September 12, 2008. In thirty-six and a half hours, I am getting married. That’s why I shaved my legs.
