I have never been a girl who takes a lot of time in front of the mirror.

I am troubled by my sister — who takes a good half hour between "let's go" and actually leaving — and by friends who won't camp because they can't plug in their flat irons. I love being the girl who only takes fifteen minutes from shower to door. I love that I neither know nor care about makeup or fashion beyond what makes me happy and comfy.

Now I'm divorcing and having to pay more attention to personal grooming. What I'm finding problematic, for the most part, is the necessity of consistency. Married, if I didn't shave my legs for a while, who cared? Now, though, I'm engaging in this tedious activity constantly.

What if, walking home tomorrow, I run into Jon Stewart and he offers to take me home and ravish me? What if he runs away in horror because of my prickly yeti legs? Being constantly prepared for unexpected ravishing, making sure all my bits are trimmed/exfoliated/lotioned/attractively covered — the effort is exhausting.

Here is the tragic reality — I can no longer be the smugly low-maintenance girl who doesn't own a blow dryer. I can no longer fill my medicine cabinet merely with band-aids and floss. This single business is a whole new ball of wax. Literally.

Waxing — this is where I draw the line. I'm sorry, no. I am not letting some stranger loose on my girly parts if there's no foreplay involved. As slippery as this beauty routine slope is proving to be, I refuse to succumb.

Next post: Alice visits friends who challenge her with peer pressure and promises of great sex.