Fuzzy Legs

This morning my handsome little three-year-old visited me in the bathroom as I was getting ready for work.

He looked up at me with his beautiful brown eyes. With as much seriousness as a child his age could muster, he shared what was on his mind.

"Momma," he began. "Your legs are fuzzy."

"Uh huh," I replied. "I know."

Why?" He asked.

I looked down at my angelic tax deduction. With as much honesty as I could muster, I began my explanation.

"See, honey. Your mother is a 34 year old single woman. Do you know what that means?"

He bravely shook his head no.

"It means that I don't have to shave my legs. It means that when you are at your father's house, I sleep on the couch wrapped in your Thomas the Train blanket. A hot night on the town to me means going to Barnes and Nobles. You don't have to shave your legs for that. You don't have to shave your legs to go see a movie with your sister and be home by nine. Sweetie, most Saturday nights find me watching old horror movies and drowning my sorrows in Oreos. I don't need to shave my legs for any of that either.

I don't hold out any hope that a man will visit me and rub his hand down my leg. I have given up on the notion....on the idea....on the belief that I will ever have a boyfriend. When a single woman resigns herself to the fact that she will always be single, she kind of forgoes the shaving of the legs. Leg shaving means you are hopeful. Baby, I lost all hope months ago. Now, I've just decided to risk hypothermia and leave my window open at night in hopes of the snake returning."

I looked at the three-year-old. "Do you understand all this?"

He presented to me a blank stare that I could not read. "Momma, can you just fix me some oatmeal?"