Wow, No Thank You - Samantha Irby Page 0,54

wash my legs. I mean, they get wet, but I don’t necessarily scrub them. Is that gross? I can use that extra minute to tap some pointless cream under my eyes with my ring finger (a thing you are apparently supposed to do) or stand next to the tub dry-brushing myself to help my circulation (yet another thing to add to the never-ending checklist). I start washing at the top, get real intense around the middle, then let the suds rinse off the rest. I know that is horrifying to you, I do, but have you ever considered this counterpoint? Your legs really aren’t that dirty. I don’t know that the skin on my calves has felt the rays of the sun upon it in the last five years, so how could it possibly be dirty? Sure, it could stand to be exfoliated every now and again, which I haven’t even gotten to yet despite how often I’m told that my entire outer layer of my epidermis should be grated off like Parmesan once a week, but does it actually need to be cleansed every day? I hate even talking about this lest anyone confuse me for a hippie when what I actually am is EXHAUSTED, but this is a hill I’m willing to die on. With filthy legs.

Head, Shoulders, HOW MANY GLUCOSAMINE DO MY KNEES NEED TO STOP SOUNDING LIKE A SHATTERING WINDSHIELD EVERY TIME I STAND UP, and Toes.

Is there ankle care? I’m not sure what ankles are supposed to be other than “delicate,” but, bitch, I have a heart problem, so my ankles bulge like hot water bottles at the end of the day. The most I can muster energy to do for them is buy the good kind of compression stockings.

I’m not sure how blocks of calloused skin housing blood and tiny little bones are supposed to also be supple and smooth and impeccably groomed at all times, especially when you just shove them into sweaty gym shoes all day and immediately put them in slipper socks at night, but here we are. My friend John runs a foot fetish porn site called Feetishes?, and when he told me about it, I wasn’t grossed out or anything, because I would masturbate to two grandfathers fucking at a bus stop. I imagine how much intensive labor it would take to preserve perfectly fappable feet. Clipping and squaring up the toenails, filing down the heels, figuring out a way to seal that crevasse that always opens up on the ball of the foot, thoroughly moisturizing the webbing between each toe…And that’s just what’s expected of a normal person getting their barking dogs ready for flip-flop season! I can’t even fathom what a nude foot model has to go through. Attaching tiny barbells to their phalanxes for daily strength training? Hanging upside down like bats while they sleep? I really just need these hooves to get me around from place to place every day and not hurt. I can’t also make them beautiful. I mean, I can get a kick out of watching a woman wrap her impeccable soles around a slippery erection as much as the next guy, but what slobs among the rest of us has that kind of time?

I ordered vitamins, from Instagram, because that is the kind of thing I have the emotional bandwidth for. I don’t take them every day (who do you think you’re dealing with?), but I sometimes catch sight of the bottle on the kitchen counter and go, “Oh, yeah! A self-care thing I could easily do!” as I’m walking out the back door on a mission to Burger King. I’ve purchased many fancy water bottles while lying to myself that I would drink more water if the vessel it was served to me in cost eighty-seven dollars and Busy Philipps had the same kind. I’m trying out a new Vitamin C serum that’s supposed to make my face light up like a fucking quasar because I heard the new trend is to be so distractingly shiny that no one can see all the things wrong with your hideous beast face. I tried to start using a facial roller, but using it was too embarrassing even when I did it at home by myself. I got some cream with acid in it from my sister-in-law who might have been trying to