I woke up this morning smelling earthy. The smell you get if you skip a day of showering, or don't shave your underarms. The hippie smell. I remember a summer of fuzzy legs and underams (yes I know, so many are revolted by that, my boyfriend at the time requested it and I kind of dug it, too.) Plentiful pot and mind-blowing sex. Only drank once or twice, only got DRUNK once (Scream, Blackula, Scream and Mickey's Grenades... need I say more?)
I had my Devil-may-care punkrocker boyfriend, with too many tattoos and not enough ambition. I had my fairweather friends that kept me laughing in the good times and headed for the hills when things got rough. I had my first hand-blown glass bowl, and I put it to good use. I had a cheap, reliable source, and enough disposable income to keep the party going all summer.
My parents would go camping for weeks on end, and I would drag my matress down in the living room and do a little camping myself. We would lie on the floor, lounge on the couch, for days, leaving only for the occasional hazy shift at work, or supply run.
Beer for breakfast, ice cream for lunch, pizza for dinner. Zombie movies playing on the TV, frantic searches for the roach clips. Redneck Zombies. Anything by Tromaville. Mumble through the days at work, stocking shelves never felt so Zen. Return of the Living dead; I, II & III. Stumble through the nights at club, the Warehouse never looked so pretty, the music never sounded so deep.
Frenzied clean-up missions, hours before mom & dad got home, bottlecaps under the couch, Doritos on the hearth. Sweeping Dave & Step's cigarette butts off the back porch.
Then it all came to an end. I had to buckle down for school, Dave resented no introduction to mom & dad. Step moved to the country to live with grandma, Sara resented me for backing out on the house deal. Monica found an abusive Aussie to rule her life and cast us aside, and I was left to start over.
Now I have a job where my performance is monitored daily, I have no cheap and reliable source. School is over tomorrow, but only for a month. No time to myself at home, can't go boating in December. No privacy, no fresh herb, only second-hand scraps tossed down from the big dogs.
My boyfriend now can't stand a fuzzy woman, so I submit to the razor as often as I can bear.
Somehow I miss that day-old smell. Human, herb, incense, sugar, flowers and black-bottomed feet.