The State of Mr. Bigglesworth

This is the new name for my crotch, and I’m not necessarily sure how to feel about it. It may be a bit too “spot on.” Or more “spot off,” if you will.

“But the wax job. How did it go?” you ask.

There was no comedy in it. I did not scream in agony, I did not kick the waxing girl in the face, I did not kick The Boyfriend™ in the balls, and I did not flinging the pot of hot blue wax as a distraction in order to escape my voluntary torture chamber.

I merely sauntered out of there with a smug smile on my face and gave The Boyfriend™ a hug and a kiss (okay, my knees did tremble a bit, but that was from the adrenaline rush dissipating). Three hours later, what little soreness I had was gone. Less than 12 hours later, I was merely pink, rather than raging red.

This is where you think I’m being sarcastic, that I’m building up to some explosion of venomous sarcasm. I’m not. Really. I promise. Stop expecting some vicious spewing about excessive pain and suffering. What kind of person do you think I am? I’ll tell you what kind of person I am: a disappointed one.

So why am I disappointed because I’m not walking bowlegged or cringing every time I take a seat? First off, I can’t garner any pampering and sympathy from The Boyfriend™. Second, I couldn’t tell him, as I’d planned, “You are no longer allowed to complain about anything––anything––ever again.” Third, this is a rite of passage, but it now feels trivialized by the fact that blue wax only sticks to the hair; it doesn’t rip your skin up when the esthetician pulls it off. Damn you, blue wax, for taking away my battle scars! You failed to reinforce an aspect of my femininity: guilt tripping. Is this the exchange we women make for less painful waxing?

“Less painful?”

What? Did you think it wasn’t painful at all? Hell no, I bit my lip twice: once when she ripped it all off my Mound of Venus (yes, I did find out what that was because she told me that part hurts probably the most); and two, when she yanked everything off the left side. Apparently the left side is the worst for most women. Don’t ask why, I don’t know. It’s not like I’m an expert here. Even the waxer didn’t know. However, that area between my buttocks? Barely hurt. Now boys, this does not mean that area can take a lot of, mm, impact. Do not take this to your girlfriends and say, “Well, apparently waxing there doesn’t hurt, so why don’t we…?” Don’t be a douche. Seriously, do not be a douche.

So it’s left me as smooth as when I was Lolita’s age (wow, even my stomach quivered at that simile). It’s startled me a few times, like when I got ready to shower this morning. Groggily pulling my pajamas off to get into the shower, I saw a distinct lack of blond hair in the mirror and jumped. I briefly wondered if that crazy dude who lives in the apartment across the courtyard had drugged me and shaved me in the middle of the night. Then, still a bit sensitive, my high-pressure showerhead spit its needle water onto me. That was lovely.

Tomorrow, the crazy, middle aged, desperate-for-attention Jewish South African. Hm. Now I’m not sure there’s much else to say about him.