It’s 10pm on a Tuesday, and I’m sitting in the bathtub at my girlfriend’s house, shaving my legs. She said the process would take me five minutes, but almost an hour has passed and I’m still here, struggling to navigate the razor around the lumpy contours of my knees.
I finish up, spritz my shins with the shower head, and return to the living room. “Why did you do that?” my girlfriend asks. “It’s my big race tomorrow,” I respond, my legs as smooth as the day I was born. “I need to get race ready.”
