By trying, I mean I shower every day, sometimes I even have a bath AND a shower. Which is frivolous I know, but I'm pregnant and feeling whale-like and, as whales belong in the water, I'm happiest here.
I also put a fair amount of effort into my face; daubing endless products everywhere with various receptacles. I like to think I smell nice - Jean Paul Gaultier Classique for Women if you're wondering - and I'm trying to use my bump as a fashion accessory, instead of looking like a backwards camel.
Then there is the matter of hair. Now the hair on my head I can manage, I also try and keep on top of my facial fur (by which I mean eyebrows, no lady-tash to report as of yet), even though the whole plucking process renders me in pain and feeling like a chicken.
But body fur?
Once upon a 2011, back when my stomach was flatter than I ever gave myself credit for, I was the champion of body hair removal. Give me five minutes and I'd be like a naked mole-rat. I was on great terms with my Venus razor and the thought of having a hairy limb left me running for the bathroom. Don't get me wrong, I had a few bad days from time-to-time, growing lax in a four-year plus relationship, but most of the time I could say that Stephen would run his hand down my shin (ooo-er) and he would not meet a single stubble hurdle.
|Should I shave my legs?|
Now? Well, now he's more likely to go "Well who's a hairy bear then?" and laugh at me. Thankfully I'm carrying his son, so he hasn't left me destitute and out in the cold in sheer horror.
Now, there are a lot of things that pregnancy does to you, aside from the baby part obviously. Quite a few of them I hadn't bargained on. You know, that sickness I've whinged about. The heartburn I've whinged about. The oh-my-God-my-crotch-is-going-to-fall-off pain I've whinged about.
I've had to perfect my waddle, and if I need to move at a speedy pace, I now have a waddle-hop, which apparently makes me look like Quasimodo lumbering around Sainsbury's, when the need for carbs is too urgent to resist.
To put it plainly, I've traded in much of my charm and dignity, in favour of Bridget knickers (they are comfy, please don't judge me), maternity leggings and Gaviscon. I'm just not sexy anymore.
Last night, Stephen was watching the Liverpool vs. Everton match (hurrah Liverpool!) and I was bored. We'd eaten and I couldn't justify eating anymore out of sheer concern that I would indeed pop. I was uncomfortable on the sofa and bored of playing Draw Something and Words With Friends on my iPhone, so I decided I'd use my Molton Brown bath stuff that came in my March Glossybox and have a good old soak in the tub. Perhaps I'd even sing a few Disney songs and whip out the old Kindle. It was a certified plan.
Fifteen minutes later, when the bath was full and I'd managed to undress myself without help or falling over (you have no idea how valuable touching your own toes actually is) I lowered myself into the tub carefully, as not to lose half of the water, and let out a sigh.
I stretched out my legs and strained to see my toes from over my bump. I must have over-exerted myself as before I knew it, half the lotions and potions around the bath edge came tumbling into the bath. Scrabbling to put them all back, I felt a rather uncomfortable item wedged between my arse and the side of the bath. Dislodging it, I found it to be my beloved Venus. While, I'd been maintaining my armpits (there's really no excuse for that) I hadn't touched her for over thirty seconds in a long time.
I looked at the razor. I looked at what part of my legs I could see. I looked around the bathroom. No one was there. Coast was clear. Not even a perverse Jack Russell was to be seen.
It was then I made the commitment - I was going to shave.
This sounds much easier than it actually is. You may scoff, but there is a 39cm-long baby in my actual womb and that, while not full-term, is still rather a large hurdle to overcome, when you want to touch your toes. (Just occurred to me that I can no long partake in the song Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes - the horror.)
First, I tried to stretch. Nearly winded myself.
Then, I tried the bent leg technique. Made me look like a cross between a pregnant frog and a dog trying to clean its bits.
After several moves, some of which resembled yoga positions and some of which, had they been witnessed, would have had me locked up, I managed to de-fuzz my legs. I'm pretty sure there was enough leg hair to make someone a very interesting-looking wig, but let's try and preserve my dignity.
I am now the proud owner of 97% smooth legs. They are only 97% smooth as, upon inspection, I have a few "missed" patches and I also seemed to have skinned my ankle - bled for AGES.
I do believe that the time has come...I'm actually going to have to ask Stephen to do them. And this terrifies me beyond actual belief.
And as for the bikini area...let's not even go there.