…has been growing for several weeks in anticipation of the infamous Brazilian wax. My con-artist, er, I mean lovely daughter talked me into enduring this procedure with her under the guise of “bonding.” When a mother works 40+ hours a week, “bonding” is one of those trigger words. Ya’know the kind of word that will get the results that the user desires. In fact, all of my lovelies have picked up on the effectiveness of this lingo.
My youngest will often approach me with his best impression of a basset hound and say,
“I want to spend quality time with you.”
HOW can a living, breathing, Mom (because sometimes I am a Zombie) refuse these words? Often this quality time ends with a purchase from the iEmpire via it’s hedonistic app store. We have joined the cult with our iPhones, iPads and iMac but I digress…that’s for another day.
Back to my daughter and her need for bonding which, I knew would involve doe, rae, me but never expected the activity I would be spending it on. I think the conversation went something like this:
“Mom, I haven’t seen you all week so let’s spend some girl time bonding”
“Um, yeah, ok sure. Sounds good.” [thinking along the lines of shopping, movie, lunch, maaybe a massage or mani/pedi]
“Awesome! So I was thinking we’d get a Brazilian wax.”
“ANNNDD you know what that involves right?”
[rolling her eyes] “Of coooourrrrse!”
Now, I have been waxed and sugared downtown before but I have never indulged in the Brazilian style. I figured I’d leave the hairless cat impression to the porn stars. I’m a 40+ yr old mother of 3 who can still wear a bikini. As long as that bikini line doesn’t look like Chewbacca is trying to escape….Kudos to me!
But you see, we hard-working, guilt driven parents do things for our kids that normally, if we were home, we wouldn’t do. Take this scenario back a few years when I was with these lovelies 24/7 making food from scratch (HA, joking for literary drama – I loathe the kitchen). My response to having course hair, that is more rooted and intrusive than dandelions, yanked out from my sensitive Netherlands would quickly be a,
But fast forward 4yrs and I found myself laying on a table exposing all of my seed planting ground with my legs sprawled open in the “Frog” position. I’ll spare you the gory details of how the technician applied hot wax in areas that I’m convinced have never seen the light of day…not even at the Gyno’s office. Of how once hardened on my sensitive inner folds, this wax (referred to as hard wax) was ripped off piece by piece at speeds that resembled those of a turtle while I panted, twitched, squirmed, sweated profusely, foamed at the mouth, and finally heard myself asking for a “Break.”
A break that I never received because the technician smiled politely and kept going saying something about needing to get the wax off. I think I passed out at about this point because desperation set in as I thought…wait, no seriously, wipe that polite smile off your professional technician face….I wasn’t kidding….I need a freakin’ break!!!
Me, needing a BREAK from painful stimuli? What is this unfamiliar madness? I have a mutant sky high pain tolerance and am often referred to as a tank. Childbirth, tattoos, weird piercings, self injections, invasive medical procedures, joint manipulations (the list goes on and on) were mere blips on the pain scale of tank Beth. But this….this…hard wax Brazilian broke me?
When I finally came to I found myself laying on my side while she expertly kneaded my buttocks like a mound of dough trying to get the wax to “set” in the eye of the black hole. When she stopped the kneading to position a hand held fan between my cheeks for “optimal setting,” I decided passed out was a good state of existence.
A short time later my daughter and I tramautically hobbled out of the spa looking like we rode one horse too many. It didn’t take long to come to the conclusion that all future bonding time would be free of wax and spread eagle nudeness.
We decided to leave the extreme pelt removal to the taxidermists and porn stars.