Tis The Season

To fall on your ass.

I happened to take my trip on Saturday, on the way to a holiday party. No, strike that. On the way IN to a holiday party. So, you know, no time for anything to dry, black bits of street grime accenting my newly matted hair. So hot.

I slipped in front of an apartment building, stepping off the curb. I must have put my hand out to stop my fall- a lesson I should have learned the first time I sprained it. But no! I refuse! Take your gravity and shove it, you! I will go careening across icy streets only to end up splayed like a dissected frog on the dirty, dirty ground with my skirt halfway up to my neck and my hand in a deceivingly deep puddle TIL THE DAY I DIE!

In other news of my grace and elegance, I rejoined TF’s gym and am forcing him to train me. He wouldn’t do it until I went to rehab for my back, so I did and I’m almost done (to quote my physical therapist, “Wow, you have tight old lady hips!”). So he kicked my ass for an hour, laughed at my puniness, and then tortured me some more by stretching my legs afterwards. So I’m lying on the bench on my stomach, waiting to die, when he goes “What’s up with your leg?”

I twist my head around to see him pointing at a large swath of hair left unshaven centrally located on the back of my thigh. I immediately try to roll over or cover it with… nothing. It’s completely exposed and entirely noticeable.

“Did you do that on purpose?”

“Of course I didn’t do it on purpose!”

“It looks like you’ve been growing it out on purpose.”

“I’m not growing anything out! Stop looking at it! Roll me over!”

“Seriously! It’s like a Mohawk straight down your hamstring! You have a HAMHAWK!”

“I DO NOT HAVE A HAMHAWK!”

But I did, indeed, have a Hamhawk. And no amount of asking TF to ignore it has stopped me from having a Hamhawk. I spent at least ten minutes in the shower battling it with a razor. TF, however, is keeping the legend alive by laughing at it over dinner, after dinner, and before bed.

Long live the legend of the Hamhawk.