I just realised that I haven’t posted anything since January. The problem is, I’m severely limited in what I can write about.
I can’t write about work – my boss might read this.
I can’t write about my sex life – my mother will read this.
I don’t have the time, energy, cash or inclination to take up a hobby, and my viewing habits are now restricted to the first 3 minutes of any TV show on Netflix. It doesn’t matter what it is; I’m asleep before the opening credits have finished rolling.
I get up around 5am, enjoy a 2.5 hour commute, do my 9-5, then hit the house around 8 before falling asleep in my dinner.
Dull. As. Fuck.
I could, however – I suppose – tell you about how a challenge to name two of my feminine attributes led to an inadvertent Brazilian. And about how it all happened because I don’t really like chocolate.
I don’t make puke faces if I’m offered some, and I won’t say no to the occasional bite-sized Snickers, but it’s not my go-to snack of choice. I vaguely recall that on this particular day I had volubly lusted after a circular saw that I spied in Machine Mart, made scathing remarks about passive-aggressive message responses, and expressed loathing for the question “what are you thinking?”
Anyway, I eventually mentioned the chocolate thing and was asked – in a totally despairing tone – to name two feminine attributes…
F: I said attributes, Lou. Jesus.
Me: Fine. I wear make up and can walk in heels.
F: So do a huge number of men, and they’re all probably better at it than you.
Obviously I told him to fuck off and went back to my desk (wait, this is sort of about work) but when I was wandering past an open salon on the way home that evening, I took it as a sign.
Big mistake. Huge.
I should’ve known it wasn’t going to end well when the beautician greeted me with the words, “I’m going to give you a beautiful vagina!” Now, I’ve always been very fond of my vagina (wait, this is sort of about my sex life) and I certainly never considered that it required extensive reconstruction, but I put her enthusiasm down to nail polish fumes, and followed her into a treatment room.
Oh, the ignominy.
It is very hard to maintain your sangfroid under such circumstances, not least due to the blinding spot lights necessary for spotting errant hairs, the absence of any sort of dignity, and the alarmingly close-range inspection of your nether regions by a woman in blue gloves, wielding a boiling vat of wax and – if you’re very unlucky – tweezers.
Oh, the pain.
Like a tattoo, the agony radiates, Unlike a tattoo, you can’t really see what’s going on. Which means you have to trust that the contortions you’re being asked to undergo all have some purpose and then just pray she doesn’t accidentally rip anything vital off. The pain radiates, people. But it’s over in less than 30 minutes and anyway, if you stop them halfway through, you’ll be lopsided…
After limping home, I peeled off my jeans to see that a beautiful vagina is, apparently, a homage to Telly Savalas through the medium of a buzz-cut mohawk. And I think she was pissed, not high on Rimmel 60 Seconds Super Shine; not only was my ‘landing strip’ wonky, you’d be hard pushed to accommodate a glider on the sparse foliage, let alone a Cessna.
And, to top it all off, after a few weeks, I looked like I had mange.
Tentatively looking for a bit of sympathy, I discovered that 90% of my female friends have suffered similar experiences (and one male friend, who got the text in error, was so descriptive about his back, sack and crack wax that I haven’t been able to look him in the eye since).
I’m not saying never again, but next time I want dinner and a movie first. And a crash course in yoga. And a local anesthetic. And some sort of written agreement on the exact specification of beauty this vagina might be expected to suffer for.