May 28, 2011
Sheep Shearing
Filed under: Rituals
Click thumbnail for larger image.
Scotland's known for its fickle, changeable weather. "Ne'er cast a cloot til May is oot" is a famous folksy saying; a folksy saying I'm not actually allowed to say because I have, like, zero fucking talent for accents and me reading any sort of Scottish dialect out-fucking-loud is a crime against the indigenous people of my adopted homeland. (Trust me, it really is that fucking bad.)
I experienced the temperamental Scottish weather last year when I stood, dumbfounded, in front of our office window as it snowed in motherfucking May. (That's right, May.) It served me right; I really fell off the sovereignty wagon and couldn't get my ass motivated to perform any of my seasonal rituals or duties on time. Snow in mothereffing May was, needless to say, the kick I needed to get back on track and take the shit I do more seriously.
(Little known fact: you can make the rules. The thing about making rules, though, is that you have to be fully committed to exercising them otherwise the Universe and God's host of angelic drag queens aren't going to play along. The game is for you to create, but you've got to actively participate in the process to keep it going.)
Traditionally Scottish farmers don't sheer their sheep until elder goes into flower, because it's only when the creamy, fragrant blossoms appear that the threat of unseasonably cold weather has passed. Here in the northeast that's typically in June, although this year it feels like we're slightly ahead of schedule. (Could it have anything to do with the fact that I actually managed to change the motherfucking guard on fucking time this year?)
Seeing as how I'm part sheep - Aries with the hugest fucking capital "A" - I couldn't resist joining the sheering party for summer, especially since I spend a significant portion of the season outdoors and naked. For something like eight months a year I let myself go feral, but when the weather turns - for the better - I ritually dehair and tidy myself to enjoy the sensation of the sun warming my bare, hairless skin. It's a stupid little thing, but it's my stupid little thing and I eagerly look forward to the annual meeting between me, my pubic hair, a vat of hot wax and a weirded out beautician who's used to more...uh, sophisticated...clientele.
(This last chick? Had to check on me several times while I was undressing because the mothereffing room was so effing small that my fat fucking ass kept bumping into things - metal things, which clattered and clashed and pinged and rattled - and it made it sound like I was having some sort of closeted epileptic fit. Don't EVEN get me started on how I almost put the waxing panties on wrong...)
This year differs from previous years because I got the deed done early in the season. It wasn't until last year - when my pussy was getting waxed in mid-July - that it dawned on me that I wasn't being much of an Aries leader by waiting until all the other sheep were getting sheered to join the herd. Rather than ensuring an early, warm summer I was waiting for it to happen, and when it did I waxed in celebration. That attitude? Way too passive for someone who's supposed to assure shit happens on fucking time. If it's my job to make sure everything stays on schedule then I've got to be a catalyst and set an example.
