I was on the road this past weekend. I went to an undisclosed location in Florida for a bellydance thing-a-ma-gig. Lots of dancing. Lots of drumming. Lots of feeling like the geek trying to figure out a way to sit at the cool kids table. Add that to the dance geek moments... "OH WOW! That's so-n-so! Sitting at the next table!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" or "I'm in a class taught by so-n-so!" - /end internal monologue. And lots of good times to be had by all...
And lots of pit hair.
*gags* *shudders* *twitches* *gags again*
Not just the "I haven't shaved in a few days" kind of hair. NO! I'm talking full-on, fully grown, "I'm making some sort of granola-crunchy/feminist statement about beauty" arm pit hair. I know that shaving is a recent development in the human schemes of things but... ick. It completely distracted me from one performance for about the first minute. And this other lady... I looked at her and she just exudes a wonderfully soft feminine quality that I would love to have in my life (I can be a little.. uh.. hard and blunt). So lovely, graceful, and sweet. And then she lifted up her arms and there's all that hair. *twitch*
And the hairy legs. The umpteen piercings didn't bother me. The tattoos? Nope. But pit and leg hair? You bet ya.
Truthfully, I'm just way too preppy for the tribal crowd. I'm not all that granola crunchy. I like red meat. I like my car. I was fighting the urge to channel Eric Cartman and go on a hippie hunting rampage. It would have been like shooting fish in a barrel.
UPDATE 5/2/06: Funny, how I found this article on the history of shaving our pits and legs via fark.com just this morning.