Chlorine-saturated water surged along my raw skin, with pores and cuts exposed to the glory of testosterone fueled competition - all, of course, thanks to the special edition, neon pink Gillette Venus Women’s Razor.  Just the day before, I had crossed the threshold of  masculine adulthood by shaving my legs for the first time.  My feminine, silky smooth form was indeed tearing up the aquatic center.  The swimmer’s pre-meet full body shave is an ancient ritual, extolled by olympic athletes for giving one a supreme “feel of the water.”   It wasn’t the shave, however, that opened my eyes to adulthood - it was the horribly cringe-worthy consumer experience of buying a razor.

The ineffable joy of near-adulthood seemed distant as I shuffled to the local pharmacy.  A mixture of excitement and undue responsibility fueled my expedition as I pondered, thinking that in just a few moments I would be on the road to maintaining a full and healthy moustache.  What would the cashier say?  Perhaps he would flash a knowing grin, or bestow a firm nod before uttering man-to-man wisdom.  Otherwise, I figured, a mid-twenties college girl would giggle daintily before scanning my goods and winking slyly.  My grand entrance into the store was swiftly extinguished:  no quantity of brawny power could make a “push” door open with a pull. 

Now inside, my animalistic gathering instincts set to work.  Half expecting a complete aisle dedicated to showcasing the gamut of shavers, I stumbled upon the display case containing not one, but two razor options.  With a quick glance over both shoulders, I set to work making an educated decision.  Would I pick  the sleek, silvery tool marketed for strapping lads like myself?  Or would the flowy, rose-colored...women’s model win out?  As a logical person, my mind was screaming “just go buy snacks!” , but my emotional side quipped: “Dude, chicks shave their legs.  You’re shaving your legs.  Don’t settle, bro.”  With a natural affinity for the awkward, I cautiously approached the checkout area with food packages carefully arranged to cover the ladylike razor.  “,” I might say.  But they would know.  Everyone - the middle-aged father with his son, the older polish babuschka...their stares betrayed their feigned ignorance. 

Sunken, the russet visage of the worn cashier was relaxed as she worked through my basket with both efficiency and disinterest.  Crumpling the bills in my fidgety and sweaty hands, her lips pursed as the inconvenience of my creased currency spoiled her evening.  Within moments, I found myself puzzled, outside the store, already walking home.  Never again would I feel the scrutinizing gaze of a soccer mom, judging my life choices at a CVS.  Perhaps unwarranted, my fierce smile heralded a new era - a liberating era in which I could buy and use whatever adult hygiene products I wanted. The shaving cuts I wore the next day, I wore proudly.  For while I had started the swim season as a boy, I was diving into the water as a confident and velvety dolphin-man.  The next day, I considered, I would be able to buy some condoms.