When I get nervous, I make jokes. I’m usually pretty right on in the humor department and some of my friends’ friends even refer to me as “that one really hot friend with the kick-ass sense of humor and large yet shapely feet”. Yes, they say that. All of it. Exactly like that, too. I’m intriguing. And I have lovely arches.
There are a number of recent situations where my nerves got the better part of me and zingers just flowed from my mouth like stuff that flows out of other things really easily. I’m not as great at analogies.
Last weekend, as a suggestion from my sister-in-law, I found myself laying naked from the waist down with a paper towel covering my lady bits in a room the color of Grover and the size of my bathroom. And there may have been fake flowers. I think the sign outside said WAXMANIA or WAXI-MA-CALLIT or WAXTASTIC. I can’t remember exactly because what happened in the Grover room was so traumatic that I blocked everything immediately before it out of my mind forever except for these words,
:::You’ll be fine:::
FINE, according to some people, means a woman wearing rubber gloves will use an obscene amount of baby oil on the parts “you want to keep” and then smudge hot wax that sort-of-feels-nice-but-don’t-you-tell-anyone-or-i’ll-hunt-you-down-and-SoHelpMe on the parts you want to lose and then rip them out in smallish sections until you’re holding your breath and sweating like a fat man pedaling a tricycle on the beach.
I got a bikini wax. The kind that women from Brazil go for because apparently, I can be talked into anything if frozen yogurt and/or margaritas are part of the deal. And let’s just say that getting my lady-parts waxed has been placed ever-so-carefully atop the list of situations that make me nervous.
Waxing Chick: just relax and butterfly your legs for me
me: oh. um. okay.
WC: are there any parts you want to keep? like a strip or a triangle?
me: how good are your cursive J’s?
WC: the first one’s are always the worst because the hair is so coarse and thick.
WC: you okay?
WC: but after your second or third time, it’s so easy. the hair is fine and comes out easier. you’ll be addicted.
me: i bet this is like crack to some people….how long does it take?
WC: about twenty minutes
me: is that bit supposed to come off?
WC: i think it’s much more difficult when the men get it done. they have a lower pain tolerance.
me: and more to lose.
WC: and you’ve obviously had kids, so your tolerance is probably way up there.
me: what do you mean obviously?
me: is it hot in here?
WC: you need a break?
WC: because I can give you a minute
me: no, i’m good. if you pause for more than ten seconds, i’ll end up looking like an emo asian kid down there.
WC: good. we’re almost past the hardest part.
me: great. that’s wonderful news.
me: you could really use a where’s waldo poster up there or something.
WC: that’s a good one.
WC: people always suggest we get televisions, but where’s waldo is a great idea.
me: yeah. it will take people’s minds off of strangling you.
WC: okay. almost done.
WC: time for the backside.
WC: it’s way less painful
WC: hug your knees for me.
WC: are you okay?
me: fine. *sigh* but I usually require at least three glasses of wine for this sort of business.
WC: you’re funny
Longest story ever. And then I proceeded to run into every vagina-high counter corner for the next 24 hours.
And I’m cold.