Dear 2008,

Please stop being a bitch to my friends. We had a deal.

Dear Friends,

You are the bestest. I'd like to request that each of you give yourself a hug for me, mmk? Sweet.

Dear Elijah Wood,

What's taking you so long to find me, love?

Note from Rachelskirts: If you are at all grossed out by talk of leg hair on a woman, I suggest not reading this post. You may instead skip to the bottom and leave me a comment thanking me for not including pictures.

So yesterday, being Leap Day, was my official day off from this Blog365 project. That saved me ten whole minutes of panicking ("It's 11:50 p.m.! I haven't written a blog entry yet! Arrg!"), which gave me an extra ten minutes to make out with Frodo Baggins on Sims 2.

Actually, I took a bit of a vacation from the internet as a whole last night, choosing instead to cram in a little extra time for sleeping. I woke up this morning afternoon and gave March a giant hug, thanking it for effectively killing February.

February is a hairy brat for many people, but it's a bit hairier for a certain group of guys in Texas. I've mentioned before that most of my friends live on the same dorm floor, named Club, at the college I attend in Texas. Club has a really strong history built upon numerous traditions, which is just one of the many reasons I love the floor as a whole. These traditions help build "floor unity" in a fun way, and the guys often can't even fill me in on the traditions because they are floor secrets. One of the few public traditions, however, extends throughout all of February and is called No Chave Month. (Club + shave = Chave.)

As you might have guessed, the boys are not allowed to shave their facial hair at all during the month of February. At the beginning, all the stubble is relatively adorable. By the time Valentine's Day hits, some of them are starting to look a little grizzly. When February 28 (or 29, in this case) rolls around, there are 40 or so lumberjacks stumbling around campus, looking even more homeless than the rest of the students.

Last year, I was given the opportunity to join when someone suggested that I refrain from shaving my legs for a month. I balked at first, but I then jumped at the chance to do something nutty and stupid with my friends. Of course, I wouldn't be able to wear skirts or let anyone near my legs, but, as a single girl with a crush who lived 1,000 miles away, that wasn't going to be much of a problem.

For four weeks, I let my leg hair grow out. The boys would check up on me every once in a while, only to be disappointed to find that the hairs were blonde and short and not at all manly. I'm going to admit that it was well into the second week before I was at all disgusted with myself, namely because — as a northern girl who spends most of the winter wearing several layers of pants coupled with knee socks — there have been times in my life where I have gone a week without shaving out of sheer laziness. By the third and fourth weeks, however, I was beginning to have nightmares that my leg hair was poking out from my jeans for the whole world to see. I was embarrassed even to go to Wal*mart at 3 a.m.

Finally, March rolled around, and I spent an ungodly amount of time in the shower with a stash of razor blades and three bottles of lotion.

My legs? Have never felt so amazing. Ever. I wanted to make all my friends (and heck, even the Wal*mart employees) touch them. Alas, that was going to get super awkward in a hurry, so I kept my joy to myself.

Somehow, Pimp managed to talk me into doing the whole thing again this year, and—despite the extra sleep I got last night—I am completely exhausted right now because, zomg, that leg hair doesn't just cut itself.

Watching American Idol was seriously bumming me out this week. I've had several people in the music business tell me that I should go back to school as a music major, but I always resisted because playing piano is something I do for my own enjoyment. I can't stand being paid to perform. Rocking out on the piano is such a joy to me that I always want to do it for free. It's hard enough to make a living as an artist, but it's pretty much impossible to survive on an income of zero dollars.

That said, I watch these kids following their passions and pursuing their dreams, and my plans to get a degree in marketing suddenly seem extraordinarily bland. I'm already so torn about what major to choose and what career to pursue; I don't need any help doubting my decisions.

But tonight, the words of a marketing professor came flooding back to me.

"Marketing is everything. Everything is marketing."

Never has that statement resonated so clearly with me before. I can use the skills I get with a marketing degree to pursue any one of my many interests. Business? Duh. Music? All musicians need to market themselves to be heard. Blogging? Good bloggers know the importance of marketing themselves both online and out on the streets. History? Math? English? Anything else? If I want a great job, I'll need to market myself and my talents in a way that truly communicates why I would be a valuable asset to the company.

I am so relieved. I finally feel like I've made the right decision. I am at peace (relatively speaking) about my future for the first time since I graduated high school. Hallelujah. Now Juan Pedro and I can get back to coloring with crayons and other such important things.