When my body dies, transitions, bites the dust, hits the lottery, purchases the farm wholesale or whatever you choose to call it, and the inner-I goes up to take a number in the fair up-yonder (and I certainly hope I’m right on that bet) there are a lot of questions that will probably be in my going home handbag that were unanswerable while I was a living breathing taxpaying fleshly being here on Planet Ex-Paradise.

Of course I’ll want to see my daddy, my granddaddy, my mother-in-law and cousins who got taken out by disease, accident or gunshot, and other forever-found friends and relatives who were a kinder, gentler and more compassionate money-lending type to say “see, didn’t need that loan paid back after all did ‘ja!?  (Not expecting a welcome home party invitation from them in their mansion over the hilltop.) But there will be one pressing question which won’t have anything to do with stuff like
War
Famine
Bad Dates
Yeast Infections
Female Pattern Baldness
Pain in Childbirth (I know God had nothing to do with that so you know I gotta say a lil’ sump’n sump’n to Mama Eve!)

Nope!. . . I have one simple question for the Alpha Omega and that is simply why in the world do we have to have ingrown pubic hairs when you hit age 45-plus?

See, for those of you of other beliefs like Nairism and Neetism and The Shavership, there are some of us who just like to be natural. We don’t care if our little venus fuzz—be it kinky or straight, graying or plucked out or scratched out when we have nothing else to do while sitting on a toilet waiting for something foul to fall out of our bowels—looks Mocha-choca-lata YaYa. This go-sistah soul-sistah just wanna know sistah why when it turns under and makes me Itchi Gitchi YaYa Da Da?

To some of us, discovering reasons why our body parts and pieces do stupid things is more important that the search for the meaning of life. If we didn’t have to worry about Itchi Gitchi so much, maybe we could do more Mocha-choco-lata YaYa. And the more choco-lata, the more love piece and happy YaYa goin’ on. No war, no death, no hunger, no Walmart. . . just happy YaYa without the sub-waistline hunt-a-bump, peck-a-lump ‘n’ tweeze it out like looking with a needle in a curly forest that won’t let ya’ sleep at night. Ya’ll dig? (Well, don’t dig that causes infection.)

Yep, while everyone else is praisin’ and wavin’ holy hand in the air like they just don’t care, I’ll be the one most likely to say, “Whoa now y’all, just wait a minute. Since we got all eternity up in here and nobody gets angry in heaven I gotta a few questions.”

Then I’d step out in front of God’s throne--probably might tick off some cherub--give a “Hey Bro!” shout out to Yeshua and ask, “Daddy Dearest of all Dominion, why did you make pubic hair? Was it supposed to be that since we were all ‘sposed to be naked and not have to end up buying clothes and worry about ‘em matchin’ an’ all – and you knew those first humans were gonna screw it up anyway that you just put that hair there so when we sleep we’d have something to warn us that a man was creepin’ up on us while we were tryin’ to get some rest?”

Well, after the Heavenly hosts would bow in a moment of silence for me wonderin' "who let this chick in here" I'd probably just high-five Joshua Moses and Mary/Mary (as in Magdelene and Mother of Yeshua) and skip on off to pick a fresh fruit basket of organic delectables from the Tree of Life by the unpolluted River of Life, never again having to worry about food recalls or a fishing license.

And if I did have to wait an eternity for an answer, big deal! I'd already BE in eternity. So what's another day?

For me, it would be an eternity where those of us with that question on our lips would never again have to scratch our little venuses in the morning and could say to hell with razors and hot wax strips forever, Amen!

 

© 2006, cynth’ya lewis reed

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