High Maintenance Girl

Sally: Which am I?
Harry: Oh, you’re the worst kind.  You’re high maintenance, but you think you’re low maintenance.
Sally: I don’t see that.
Harry: You don’t see it?  Waiter, I’ll have the house salad, but I don’t want the regular dressing.  I want the balsamic oil and vinegar.  But I want it on the side.  Then I’ll have the salmon with mustard sauce but I want the mustard sauce on the side.  On the side is a very big thing for you.
Sally: Well, I just want it the way I want it.
Harry: I know.  High maintenance.
Once again, I feel that movie is actually all about me and my life.  My husband is constantly telling me that I am high maintenance and although I protest, my protests are weak because I know that this is an accurate way to describe me.
I’ve been feeling somewhat guilty about complaining so much about my surgery because really, what am I really complaining about?  Things could be so much worse.  My beautiful, very active and sporty neighbour and friend was hit by a car while riding her bike, and ended up with a broken back.  A broken back!  She was out of commission for a long time, unable to do the things she loved.  And not just the sporty things she loved, but things like getting in and out of cars unassisted.   Another friend of mine had surgery in which her chest was cracked open and she couldn’t care for her two small children for many weeks, and a year later she still is feeling the effects of it.  So I feel a bit spoiled and high maintenance for complaining about something that is making me walk like I’ve been riding a horse for the  past month non-stop and is making me unable to wear anything but yoga pants.  I mean, a week ago I was clad in only pajamas and tensor bandages, so yoga pants are a very large step up. 
I’m still going to complain, though, and this one might be filed under an excess of information, but if one cannot impart an excess of information on one’s readers, then why have a blog to start with?
Here’s the thing: I can’t shave my legs.  I’m not sure when I will be able to shave my legs.  I feel like a sasquatch, or, alternately, a hippie.  You know, dear readers, I am all about peace, love, and happiness, but pass the damn razor.  And also the lip gloss.  Did you see the picture in the previous post?  That is what happens when there is no makeup.  I would have been a terrible hippie.  When I think about Woodstock I immediately get shivers thinking of all those people, all that rain and no toilets.  Not to mention the brown acid.  And all the guys wearing leather fringed jackets with no shirts underneath and without a doubt no showers or deoderant. 
But back to the issue at hand.  I feel like an actual yeti.  I don’t even want to hear from you people who regularly do not shave your legs because you don’t feel the need to.  Almost everyone I know who doesn’t shave a) is blond, or b) has little body hair anyway.  At the risk of disgusting everyone, I am not only fair skinned and brunette, but I am also of partial Scottish ancestry, and apparently my body still thinks that I need to keep warm in the Highlands. 
That’s that.  I’m not going to complain anymore, I promise. 


  1. Um. I’m confused. The guy who is unhappy w/ his custom fitted golf clubs is calling you high maintenance? Really? He is? Well, okay then. Excuse while I go giggle to myself in the corner.

  2. Oh, shut up and don’t shut up. I mean, complain away. I had this conversation with my very wise friend Zarah, about how someone always has it worse so why do things ever seem hard, and she said something wise that I can’t exactly reproduce, but the essence is, your shit is difficult because it’s your shit. And this is your goddamned blog, where else can you complain? My blog comments have all been very swear-y today – sorry. Anyway, I’ll listen to you complain and make sympathetic clucking noises about your psychotically hairy legs any time. I’m here for you, babe!

  3. I sorta feel the same way as Bibliomama. Yeah, you’re surgery wasn’t quite as tough as mine but it doesn’t change the fact that your legs still really hurt and you are rather limited in what you can do.
    If you were still complaining in 5 months our sympathy
    might dry up but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.

  4. Thanks for sharing your experience. I come to know more about surgery here.

  5. Maybe try Nair…

  6. You call THIS too much information?

    I was waiting for something about *initiating polite Canadian translator* the lady garden region or pus (pus, one S) when you tweeted that your post was TMI.

    Such a disappointment, Nicole & not at all because you’re high maintenance. Tsk tsk.

    Sooooooo do not try Nair. Just don’t. Even the “gentle” stuff. If you get it in/on something that’s still healing, you will be complaining well beyond Happy Geek’s 5 month window.

    (I promise your legs will start feeling better soon. Promise.)

  7. I’m fair (ghost-like my husband says – he’s so romantic) with dark hair and of Irish ancestry. So I totally know how yeti-like it can get. In the final month of each pregnancy, I couldn’t manage to shave my legs. It’s probably a good thing, I couldn’t see how bad it got.

  8. I feel your pain! Well not the surgery part put the hairy leg part.

    If I want to be smooth and stuble free I need to shave everyday! I am blonde and fair skinned but my leg hair (and other areas) think differently. I know my maiden name is of Scottish decent too so now I know I can blame it on that!

    Sending healing thoughts!

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