Sunday Best: Shaven Legs

top: F21, necklace: F21, earrings: F21, skirt: maurices, tights: TJ Maxx, heels: Kmart, bracelet: gift

When a girl picks up a razor for the first time to shave the hair off her legs, it's kind of a right of passage. It is one of the many steps we take to become a woman. I was the last girl in my grade to shave my legs. I remember how it happened, exactly. I was in the locker room after PE and as I changed alongside my female classmates, the discussion of leg shaving came up. I carefully listened as all the girls chatted about how smooth their legs felt and I glanced down at my dry legs covered with little stubs of hair. Those stubs told me I was still a child. A child surrounded by women. Suddenly, another girl shouted, "Wait. Do you all shave your legs?" I shyly admitted I never had. Turns out the other girl hadn't either. The rest of the girls went on to tease us and we stood together, surrounded by legs much smoother and hairless than our own. As I walked from the locker room with this other girl who had never held a razor in hand, I made a deal with her. That night, we would both ask our moms if we could begin the journey of shaving our legs. I remember being so incredibly nervous that night to confront my mom. I finally worked up the courage to ask her, and she led me to the bathroom to give me my first shaving lesson. 

The first time was so exciting. I took careful long strokes, feeling the blade against flesh. Watching as my childhood hairs dropped from the blade and whirled around in the tub water. And after I dried off, I applied lotion to my now hairless legs. That night, I think I fell asleep stroking the smooth skin of my legs. I was now a woman. If only I knew then what a pain it really is to shave legs. . .perhaps I would have waited a few more years to start. 

Today, I felt a bit like I did ten years ago in that locker room. Embarrassed of my childhood leg hairs. Both nervous and excited about growing up. Today my wonderful husband, Brian, was made second counselor in the bishopric of our ward. We are members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (Mormons). Basically different areas are divided into wards and the bishop is the one who oversees the people of each individual ward. As a bishop, you have two counselors to help assist you with all the work to be done. Brian is now one of those counselors. And if you aren't familiar with the LDS church and I've already confused you beyond measure, just know that this calling of Brian's means he will be gone a lot, helping people, and I will now hardly see him on Sundays. This means no more back rubs for me during sacrament meeting since he will be sitting on the stand (woe is me). I know Brian will do a great job, but as his wife, I feel sort of intimidated and inadequate. And young. I mostly just feel really young. So today I wore a black skirt and black tights (I rarely wear so much black) hoping that my outfit would say, "No, I'm not twenty-two years old and flawed beyond measure. I can handle this." 

But then again, my cheetah print heels probably jeopardized that motive.

If you have any tips on how to be more grown-up and mature, that'd be nice. This might be a little harder than leg shaving.