Today was Megan Day.
You might have missed it on your calenders, but it was there - a day dedicated all to Megan and her well-being.
See, with all the training and hubbub of the last few weeks, there have been some lady things that I have neglected. And let me just say that, no one really needs to see me hanging around the pool in my bathing suit after neglecting, ahem, "things" for the last few weeks.
In fact, it's been a good four weeks since any part of this body has seen the wax lady. I called for an emergency appointment, and was squeezed in.
Now, I love being a girl, but yet I hate it. One of the times I most hate it is when I find myself laying half naked in a tiny room while my pal, Yolanda, stands over me with hot wax dripping of the end of a tongue depressor, and deciding with furrowed brow how I should position my legs so she can best attack "the problem."
Numbers alway seem to be involved in this hair-removal strategy, like "Put your right leg in a figure four" or "get on all fours," or "hold this back like a seven" or "gimme a high five." Weird.
And let me say that, for today, it was not, in fact, the actual ripping of the hair out of my body that made me howl in pain. No, oddly enough, the stripped hair attached to the hot wax off my naked parts was not all that bad today (someone once said that if you get the bikini wax often enough, it gets easier - And I am fairly certain that the person was probably a man with a porn addiction and a wife with a wax phobia and some uncontrollable "nether regions.")
Today, the main issue was the temperature of the wax itself. At one point, it was so hot, the smell of burning flesh overtook the room, and the smoke stung my eyes. I finally turned to my girl and I said, "Listen, Yolanda. I do love ya, and hell, I give you credit for be willing to stick your face down in the parts that I only touch with a washcloth, 'cause that's really got to suck, no matter how much you charge for this. And despite the pain you inflict upon me every three to four weeks, I would like to continue coming to see you so you can take care of my female business...however, if you don't turn down the heat on that bowl of pink wax soup over there, you will burn the crap out of my lady parts, thus forcing me to regrow all the hair to cover the deformaties you are leaving behind. And then I will be forced to sue you for ruining my hoo-ha."
She just chuckled in her little Yolanda way, shook her head as if to say, "This girl is one crazy ass bitch," and started blowing on the wax before applying.
And no, it did not help.
So after I hobbled out of there, holding onto my self like a 5-year-old in need of a bathroom break, I treated myself to a milkshake. I figured that, given the current state of affairs with my body, a milkshake would hit the spot and hit me up with calories so I can do that brick tomorrow. And it did, for like five gulps. And then it started to bubble back up into my throat and I had to dump it down the sink.
Is it weird to cry when a chocolate flows down the drain?
No? Huh. Maybe it's just PMS then.
Holy crap, did this post just get off track.
Where was I?
Oh, self-care. Right.
Yeah, so I also got a massage.
Odd, I was naked for that too.
I guess in hindsight, this was kind of a weird naked day.
And I just realized I have absolutely nothing else to say about that.