The Fort Collins Pube Fair.

111 pages deep into 1Q84, and Murakami describes a woman’s pubic hair for the second time.

“Pubic hair like a poorly tended soccer field.”

Then, another 71 pages later, Murakami can’t hold in the urge to shoehorn in another uncomfortable simile about pubes.

“Her pubic hair grew like a patch of grass that had been trampled by a passing army.”

I’m currently on page 275, anxiously awaiting to see how much more abstract Murakami can get in his descriptions of women’s pubic hair. Between those 93 pube-free pages, there have been swells of chests and tight sweaters. Nothing as bad as Simmons’ “Her nipples, he could not help noticing…” line.

I’ve added a new category for my posts titled “Pubes in Literature” to help keep track of all these mentions. I have asked a few friends about their general feelings on sex scenes written by men. So far, either my friends aren’t interested in discussing it in detail, or I’ve just been unlucky with my recent book picks.

Danica skipped ahead a generation with her description of how those writings made her feel: “Feels like your grandpa trying to be raunchy.”

When I’m not busy reading awkward smut, I’m emulating someone’s grandma trying to crochet. I practiced the single crochet stitch and made a slightly tapered square. The dropped stitch probably happened around the time my cannabis beverage kicked in.

By the time I’d hit the peak of my high, I’d decided to attempt some freestyle crocheting.

I made a very small nudibranch.

So, if you’ve ever wondered whether I have an innate talent for arts and crafts, there’s your answer.

I’m persistent, though. I’ve started on my mushroom toddler. Right now, it looks more like a nipple warmer:

It’s too soon to tell if it’s going well, but it’s going!

Race 5 in the Zwift Racing League: City Showdown took place in Glasgow, Scotland. It was a Points Race consisting of 10 laps of a 3km crit circuit, featuring two segments per lap. It’s as exciting as it sounds, as long as you ignore the fact that I participated from my living room, using a laptop propped up on a shoebox.

In a Points Race, a rider’s segment placement determines how many points they earn. In Tuesday’s race, there were 31 racers. The first rider across the line would get 31 points, while the last rider would get 1. With 10 laps and 2 segments per lap, the math is exponentially easier than the race. I’d never done 20 hard efforts with just 2 minutes of recovery in between. My teammates seemed to find the race just as daunting, which helped crumble the mental block I was having.

I expected to fare better on the climb segment. My first go up The Clyde Kicker called that into question when I misjudged the timing of my effort and activated the featherweight powerup late. (Everyone gets the same powerups: it’s when they choose to activate them that makes a difference.) Five laps into the race, and I was still finishing ahead of half the pack.

The tenth and final time I crossed both segments, my times on each were still close to what I had achieved with fresh legs, despite looking like I’d been trampled by a passing army. All that self-doubting preceding the race had been a waste of time. Of all the activities I participated in this week–math, crocheting, or wrapping Onigiri in seaweed–the race was my most successful endeavour.

My team, RIOT, won with 527 points over the 2nd-place team. Essentially, the other five ladies performed so well that they could have won without me.

In the other virtual world, Animal Crossing, Lottie was so impressed with my work on the island’s new cafe that she let me name it:

Trashy people need their coffee, too.