I don’t want to be crass. Okay, sure I do. Who am I kidding. If you could see inside my soul, you’d be amazed at the beautiful singer/songwriters I adore, the Lifetime movies that leave me sobbing (even on Zoloft), the way I restrain myself from thinking judgemental thought of other women I see at Office Depot who cut in line in front of older women because they’re “in a hurry.” Yes, I try. But sometimes one can’t help but be crass in an attempt to connect with other moms. Now, all you hippies out there, you can just disregard this email but for the rest of you — can you relate to my 70’s retrobush that’s starting to happen?
Oh, I try. I do. I go and get my Brazilian but it seems to happen less and less often and then in between I have to shave and then it just seems easier to shave (not to mention cheaper). But, God, I love the feeling of being all freshly waxed all around the parts that we can’t see but know they are hairy. I love the secret sexiness I feel. Better than a pedicure, more decadent than a Snackwell cookie binge, and usually leading to that all elusive sex. Partly because I feel good and party because my feeling good leads to making others feel good.
But, damn, longer and longer I go between a waxing. It starts to feel so intimate that I dread it like I dread the gynocologist. But at least with the Gyno they know exactly what they’re doing. At the nail salon I go to, we’re dealing with a curtain, hot wax and a woman who doesn’t speak the greatest English in the world. She does understand that word “AAAAAAH, that hurt.” But it doesn’t seem to phase her.
I love the feeling though when I’m leaving and it’s done! Not to have to be repeated for at least a month. Okay three weeks but I’m Russian. Yet, I don’t go back. Why? Don’t I care anymore?
Is this why I’ve actually gone to bed after being at the gym that day without showering? Is this what my hygiene’s come to?
File this under Overshare.