Because I'm stuck on hold trying to make camping reservations...being forced to listen to Billy Joel songs sung by people OTHER than Billy Joel. Because a full year later, I've come to realize that for every hair I remove from my body, 10 more show up in it's place.
Oh yes, good times.
"I love you just the way you are...." streaming into my ear, seems ironic, doesn't it? "...the way that I believe in you."
And, here comes the Celine Dion Titanic song...oh no. I may not survive. Good grief, how long must one stay on hold? And who chooses the music? And what is wrong with these people? I know they are sitting there, playing office basketball, painting their fingernails, telling stories of their weekends to their co-workers forcing customers to listen to this god-awful (and I mean AWFUL) music that despite it's god-awfulness, is making me cry.
"I believe that my heart will go on..."
Oh, the hormones.
And now it's time to butcher "Heard it Through the Grapevine," with no words whatsoever.
It's okay, if you need me, I'll be on hold.
Enjoy (*originally shared with the entire world, summer, 2008):
For my 34th birthday I received 2 gift certificates to a local spa. One was for a massage (which I cashed in 6 months later . . . aaaaah, can we all say eucalyptus aromatherapy together now?) and the other (given to me by my loving spouse) was for a massage and a little something else . . . a little $50 something else which was cleverly coded as "other spa services" on the beautiful gold gift certificate.
Need I mention that I turned 35 this year and still, that one gift certificate remained in a special place in my underwear drawer, just waiting for the proper time to be used?
Yeah, well there it lay in wait amongst the veritable underwearfest that is known as my panty drawer as well as the place where the tooth fairy stashes all of her collected teeth (I think I may have to talk with her about leaving her goods in places they don't belong).
Since summer is here and since I am a full-fledged grown-up (shhhhh, don't tell anyone), I thought it was high time I use those "other spa services" available for $50. It probably is not much of a surprise to anyone that the only services listed for exactly $50 are those services having to do with the waxing of my bikini line and more.
God, if I can't even type it, than how can I actually do it?
Okay, Brazilian. Brazilian. Brazilian. Brazilian.
Me? Not such a big fan of a total Brazilian, but I figured there was probably some way of negotiating with my waxer, hair ripper, torturer, what do you call them anyway? I thought if I had been seen by my OB/GYN about a thousand times, not counting the team of people present for the births of my three children, than surely I could be brave enough to tell the lady (oh, it had better be a lady and not a man) exactly what I want and how I want it. And that little morsel of information is not for sharing.
Turns out you can negotiate anything you want while lying on a table with your feet pulled up to your ears. Although I am not sure I want to relive the experience anytime soon. I have been assured that "it will not ever hurt as much as the first time" by everyone I know who has had it done, including the 12-year-old Russian hair ripper who laughed when I asked her if she had seen the episode of The Real Housewives of the OC where they take Vicki's assistant to get waxed and you can hear her screaming through the door, "Will I ever be able to go to the bathroom again?"
She hadn't seen that episode but she assured me that she'd try to catch it in reruns when she wasn't busy staring at vaginas on the waxing table.
Gone yet Dad? Okay then.
I wasn't blessed with a hairy mother, so I had no formal schooling (until now) on body hair removal. My mom is one of those people who can shave her legs once a week and still have smooth legs. Her eyebrows are neat little arcs over here eyes with nary a stray hair, all on their own.
Me? I am a gorilla. Thanks Dad, if you are still here. I began waxing my eyebrows when I was 21 and before that I would attack them with tweezers like a fat girl in a cake store. The minute one would get out of line, there I would be plucking it away like it never existed. I have to shave my legs every live long day and don't even get me started on the weird hair that decided to appear on my chin.
Yes, I've had my hormones tested. No, I am not a man.
So there I was, breathing like I was in labor (probably sounding a lot like Free Willy eh?), trying not to scream or be embarrassed. Which, as I learned, is nearly impossible to do. Trying to not be embarrassed on a waxing table is like trying not to be embarrassed if you are that really weird girl who got kicked out of the American Idol auditions before she even sang a note. "The world will never know just how wonderful I really am!" Sob.
Finally the job was done. And by finally, I mean 45 minutes later. I think I only pushed for 33 minutes to get Wyatt born, but who's counting? My little Russian hair ripper worked on my eyebrows after that, which was surprisingly zen-like after the ordeal I'd just been through and I became so relaxed that I nearly fell asleep.
I probably had post-traumatic stress disorder.
Anyway, would I get it done again? Yes, in about 6 weeks. But next time, I'm packing a designated driver because personally, I think it would hurt a lot less if they would just give me an epidural.