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| "Vanity is my favourite sin." ~Al Pacino~ |
I haven't been to the gym in way too long. For the past two weeks I've felt sluggish and very blah. I believe "blah" is french for "crap".
So, tonight on my way home I had a super-hero-like flash of inspiration. I wasn't dreading physical exercise. Indeed, quite the opposite, I was craving it. What I was dreading was spending any more time cooped up inside in stale, furnace-heated-winter-air.
As soon as I got in the door, I tore off my work clothes, and pulled on my "play" clothes. With my bright, fuzzy Jannie-P mittens on, and my make-up scrubbed off, I tromped into the snow. The snow was falling, not gently, but gingerly. The wind had picked up enough to make me bend my head down and forward to avoid snowflakes getting in my eyes.
I spent a wonderful hour out in the snow listening to Mr. Buffett, my mind wandering to the lovely ski weekends I have shared with my friends at Barbara and Dwight's. I missed the weekend this year, and last for that matter.
One of my favourite memories is stumbling into their warm kitchen, the last one to arrive as the sun sank into slumber on the winter Bruce County horizon. Cold and wet I stumbled into the sounds of latin jazz and an outstretched hand with a freshly made mojito. Oh, I missed my friends tonight!
Nostalgic for my friends, I opened a lovely bottle of wine I bought with this ski weekend in mind. I had planned on taking it this weekend in fact. However....(don't worry guys - I bought two - I'm saving one for you!!!).
After I came inside from my February frolic, I cooked up a new recipe that involved Red Snapper and lots of fresh parsley (I love fresh parsley), I sipped on my glass of wine. Almost half a glass in, I noticed that I was pretty relaxed. I chalked it up to my light lunch and long winter walk.
Nope. I was definitely more relaxed than I had anticipated when I uncorked the wine. I got up to check the wine label. Good old Cali-for-ni-A. 15% alcohol. A little much for this girl. I retired to the chesterfield, and decided to let the wine soak into my dinner as I watched Coronation Street. Holy mackeral, half a glass of wine, and my warm winter glow was not budging. What to do? What to do?
Bikini Wax!
What a brilliant Sonoma soaked idea! I'm a genius. I heated up my wax...about 30 seconds too long. As I stumbled into my closet to disrobe I caught the faint scent of burning wax. Wrapped in my six sizes too big fuzzy blue bathrobe that makes my parrot think I'm her mother, I ran to the kitchen catching my left hip on the corner of the table. Ow.
As a recent rebel in the Egyptian political coup said, "It's going to be long, and it's going to be painful, but in the end it will be worth it." Onward with the waxing!!!
I took another sip of the rubbing alcohol wine. I had time after all - the wax had to cool. I didn't want to waste this unintentional buzz now that I had the wax heated up. That's what made my bikini waxing brain wave so brilliant. Numb the pain. AND - VD is coming. You know, the dreaded Valentine's Day. When the fat man in the red suit shows up I'll be ready. Wait. No. When the big white bunny dies...whatever...wow that wine has some kick!
Into the washroom I went, with John Mayer serenading me. Jar of wax placed on a saucer, I had my hair-dye/waxing towel at the ready. A guest once pulled the offending towel out of my linen closet, and recoiled in horror, "Oh my gawd Trish! What's on this towel?!". Just bikini wax and hair dye stains lovey. Ignore that.
So, I proceeded to do the deed. It's an unnatural adventure really. Legs contorted, skin pulled, renegade hairs popping up where you least expect them. When all you can safely wear lest you stick to it, or inadvertently tear it and small pieces of flesh off at the same time, is a pair of glasses and a hairband, you know you're venturing into a dangerous sport. If my eyesight was better, I wouldn't need the damn glasses. I'm always terrified they're going to get waxed up and I'll mistakenly pull my eyelashes out.
That almost happened once you know. I came home from a late night shift at the funeral home and decided I'd wax my eyebrows so I'd be pretty during a hot date the next night. I didn't even have to look into the mirror after the accident. I knew something went drastically wrong when all of the skin above my brow bone screamed in torturous pain as I waxed three quarters of my eyebrow off all at once. My hot date the next night only was blessed to see my "good side". I remember what a cutie he was, and I was terrified he'd stroke the side of my face one morning and recoil in horror as he wiped my fake three-quarter, painted-on eyebrow off. This being gorgeous is harder than it looks.
Tonight I found stretch marks I'd never seen before, all the while balancing on one leg, singing my heart out to John Mayer and drizzling thousand degree wax all over my waxing towel and the floor. Stretch marks don't seem so awful and tramatizing after you've had a glass of this wine. My friend calls wine "Mama Juice", I think she's got something with that code word.
I could hear my girly bits snickering, "Ha-ha you can't get me with your hot wax lady!". I waxed and pulled, pulled and waxed. Hopped around with my waxing/dye towel permanently attached to the ball of my right foot, and my left foot high stepping off of little blobs of wax shrapnel. It was a beauty war. War of the Smooth. War of the Wax. War of the 15% Wino. A Muma Juice Incited War if you will.
Full on into the waxing, every time I shifted, trying to access some spot only god should see, my thighs would stick together, and then try to stretch apart. Lovely. Thighs unstuck I proceeded with my waxing. The wine helps. I stopped when I shouted, "Ow", out loud. Somehow I had reached my limit. There were still vigilante hairs here and there, but nothing my fancy-five-blade-pink-warrior-goddess- razor couldn't fix.
I managed to get everything back in place - the lid on the wax jar, the tongue depressors (compliments of my favourite GP), the saucer back in the kitchen sink, and the dye/wax towel ripped from the tender bottom of my foot, my wiggly bits adjusted, all despite having hands layered with sticky, cooled wax.
Now, for those who don't do home "grooming", they give you a little bottle of blue oil with the waxing kit. It's the only way to unstick the sticky bits when you're done. I always feel like a rubbed down butterball after I use that stuff. Oil manages to get in all the bits and creases and, like the hot wax, on the floor.
As I stepped into the hot bath water, one foot on the bottom of the tub, one foot on the bath mat, I hit a slippery spot, and I scrambled to keep my naked, oiled up self from doing the splits and falling backward, hitting my head on my bath pillow, and drowning with a concussion and a blood alcohol level just below the legal level.
Freaking waxing!
None of my married friends do this "blah" (see french translation above) any more. I don't know whether I'd rather be hairy, or smooth and inebriatedly concussed.
Happy VD. Be smooth.
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