Sunday sunday.

Oh, Sunday. The unavoidable, best outfit, cutest hair, and most coiffed... well, everything day... At least in most BYU wards. The over-population of 23 year old girls looking for their MRS degree, or more simply stated, their eternal companion, is quite over-whelming. Mere, less-sophisticated sophomores hardly have a chance at being noticed in the crowd of beautiful, intelligent, and highly presentable girls.

This morning I woke up at 9:30. (Early for Sundays-- church isn't until noon.) I was feeling pretty good about life, and decided today was one of those 'look-super-cute-simply-to-build-my-self-confidence' days. (You must know that these days don't happen very often for me. They are a rare occurrence, to say the least.) Unfortunately, it seemed that two of my lovely roommates had had that very same idea that very same morning, and had therefore finished their showers before I had even begun to strip myself of my stained, over sized, I LOVE NY t-shirt, and boxers.

Obviously unaware of this vital information, I joyfully hopped in the shower, humming, and putting together Sunday outfits in my head. My joy, however, was short-lived. As soon as I turned the faucet on, unrealistically ice-cold water spewed my entire body. I let out a yelp of pain, (yes, pain.) executed a SOLID pas de bourrée, slipped on the wetted, tile floor, and landed with one leg still dangling in the shower, and one leg awkwardly twisted outside of it. I gathered my sprawled body parts, and stealthily avoided the still-running water. My right arm (the more daring of the two) ventured inside the shower in an attempt to adjust the temperature. Unfortunately, the temperature-adjuster-thingy was already turned all the way to the left, and therefore, the water was at the hottest possible temperature: Death freezing.

This unfortunate turn of events gave me two options:
1. Don't shower.
Consequences of this decision:
a. My older, more sophisticated ward's previous conceived notions of my anti-social, primitive, immature-self would be solidified.
b. My smell would probably make at least 5 of my wardmates become inactive-- for a least a couple months, anyway.
c. The grease from my hair might drip and create permanent stains the the newly carpeted floor-- OR, the new McDonalds a couple blocks away would see my natural, eco-safe sources, and pay me generously to provide them with french fry oil.

2. Shower.
Consequences of this decision:
a. The possible, even probable happening of me looking cute for the second week of church in the BYU 164th ward. People might even talk to me!
b. I would be conforming to social norms that I so often disregard, and might be considered semi-normal, if only for one day.
c. That funk that I had been smelling the last few days (weeks) might disappear completely, and gagging wouldn't accompany mealtime...at least for a little while.


I chose to shower.



Dumb decision.
Moments after re-entry into Satan's personal ice-hole, I realized that I hadn't shaved adequately all week. Ordinarily, this would be no issue of concern, but everyone knows that you can't do a half-bum job of looking cute. If you do, you end up just looking stupid. It's gotta be all, or nothing--and that is one of the first rules they teach you when you become a girl. I started the shaving process, but only got halfway-through before my senses couldn't take my treachery any longer. I abandoned all of my previous-spoken ideas about looking cute, etc, and saved my bloody life instead. My bloody life, with freezing limbs, newly clean hair, and but one leg shaven.

I finished the beautifying process, and looked in the mirror.
"Really, how noticeable is my one, unshaven leg?"
My conclusion was that it was far from noticeable, and I had nothing to worry about.


Status: Failed.

I brushed/bumped/rubbed (that sounds a little risque) legs with every single, remotely cute, male figure in the BYU 164th ward today. Lovely.

Hey Kaylie, France called. They want their Au Natural back.

Oh, America.