Too Much Information, Party of One

I wish that I had all of her elegance, refinement, sophistication, class, polish.

I wish that I could politely keep bodily functioning to myself, (which I was very successful at until I had kids and all of my personal utilities were … well, it’s just harder.)

I wish that I wasn’t so, sort of, proud about my tomboy ability to shake the floor with my burps.

I wish that I could be a graceful woman who people could look at and never imagine her ever having seen a booger, much less have one herself.

I wish that I didn’t attack my face in the magnifying mirror before bed, causing my husband to yell from under the covers “Leave your face alone!” or “Don’t take it out on your face!”

I wish that I could bring my boys up believing that there was a little awe and mystery to women, and that women were delicate and somewhat attractively private.

She posted this a while back and I have been thinking (too much) about it since, wondering what bit of lady-likeishness I still have left in me. What do I do that my husband has no idea about? What secret grooming regimen?

Sadly, I can’t come up with one thing.

I finally once and for all relinquished all of my polished-lady aspirations as I was *cough* trimming my nose hair the other day.

And I actually determined that this spruce-up was necessary after having a conversation with my exceptionally nice neighbor last weekend.

He was detailing the new relationship he was experiencing with a laser probe associated with some internal hemorrhoids, and I was sniffing and rubbing my nose like coke addict.

Finally, I interrupted and asked him seriously if I had hangers, because I could feel a party going on in my nose. He assured me I didn’t.

That’s when I realized things were probably just bushy in there, and unless I wanted to continue feeling like I constantly had “bats in the cave” (an expression he taught me that still cracks me up) then I needed to take care of the situation.

I did it when Josh was not home, but I have no problem telling him about it. Or doing it in front of him. Or WRITING ABOUT IT ON THE INTERNET. Or talking to my neighbors about it during hemorrhoid discussions.

I hate to admit that I’m hopeless in this area. I would love to have an inner Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly. I would love to have people think “No way, not her. She’s too refined.”

Instead I may as well perfect smashing a beer can on my forehead and scratching my rear end. The 4-boy testosterone run in my house has successfully infiltrated all of my good (ladylike) sense.

Which sucks ‘cause I think I could have rocked the Audrey very well.