And now back to our regularly scheduled programming, Adventures in Brazilian Wax.

There are moments in the BlissQuest when I think, “Oh! That’s a great idea for a quest!” or “Maybe I have been too adamantly against this for too long, I should give it a try and see what I’m missing!” Then ultimately, when it doesn’t work out like I plan or imagine my last thought is, “At least it will make an interesting blog entry.”

Strangely, as I climbed up onto the table in the back room of the salon, I thought none of these things, in fact the only thing that crossed my mind as Mindi wrapped a towel around my waist and I heard the crackle of paper under my body was… “What the fuck am I thinking?! This is a terrible idea! Run away! Run now before it’s too late!”

Mindi bustled around as I tried vainly to get comfortable and ran the mantra over and over, “You are no longer in your body. You are in Mexico, on a beach and there are beautiful cabana boys…”

Somewhere, someone was pulling on my ankles, “Yous must undo legs.”
As if some spastic muscle had locked in a frozen position, my ankles were crossed and Mindi was tugging at them then sighed and gave me a dirty look.

“I’ve never done this before,” I said. “I’m not really sure what to do.”

Mindi is a Vietnamese woman in her 40’s and the proud owner of a new salon where I often come to get pedicures. She compliments me on my eyebrows every time I come in and then tries to sell me a bikini wax “I do you in lest an half hour! *Rip!* Rip!* And you done!” She always says it with a flourish of hand motions as if she’s yanking the strip then laughs in a tinkling giggle. This repetition of her 30 minute bikini wax spiel has earned her the nickname “the butcher”.

I focused all my Jedi power on unlocking my ankles but the spasm shimmied up my calves and locked again at my knees.

Mindi is probably a foot shorter than myself and 95 lbs if that, but I swear to god, that little woman could lift a car off someone as though it were a candy wrapper – she has got major muscles in those skinny arms because one good crank sent my legs shooting apart on the table and I felt a blast of cold air hit a region that hasn’t seen sun since 2004.
Interestingly, now a fear of looking like a stupid idiot was actually more terrifying than the thought of the immense amount of pain I was about to endure so my legs actually stayed open of their own accord, like wild creatures frozen in the oncoming headlights of ultimate doom.

Mindi’s air of detached professionalism should have been a great comfort to the nagging worry that somehow my hoo-ha was a god-awful forest wherein there may be the discovered remains of Hansel and Gretel. Yet her silence and focus as she wiped me down with alcohol triggered some dormant response to talk. And by talk let’s be honest folks, it wasn’t like an observational sentence and then some quiet reflection about the state of the universe. Whatever triggered hit a button that went like so… “This is a really lovely shade of blue paint. What is that like blueberry? No, too light for blueberry maybe its bluebell or something I bet there’s a chart for this sort of thing but I guess you already knew that cuz you probably picked out the color yourself did you pick it out yourself…” And on and on….

She slapped a popsicle stick of hot wax on my snatch and for a moment the world went still. I forgot to breathe. I forgot my name. Knowledge of the next inevitable step made me snap my gaze to the ceiling as I couldn’t make myself watch. The fabric strip gripped the wax base and I thought for a heartbeat, “Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe this isn’t actually going to hurt? Maybe I have a higher pain threshold than I – “

“HOLY CHRIST FUCKING BATMAN ON A WAX GOOD GAWWWWDDDDD!!!!!!”

And the world turned fuzzy for a moment. Pain. Pain. Burning. White. Hot. Pain. The really funny thing about that sort of pain is that it temporarily lobotomizes your mind of things like; speech, logic, and that pesky filter that sits between the two.

“See?” Mindi asked, “Das noso bad, huh?”

My pain-burdened mind suddenly believed I was Wesley from ‘The Princess Bride’ when he’s strapped to the table and the “Machine” just sucked a year of his life away, and the six fingered man says, “How do you feel? And remember, this is for posterity, be honest.”

I whimpered and looked down at the blazing red and swollen patch missing from my crotch, then looked at Mindi who was clearly pleased with her work and asked, “Would you be terribly offended if I started crying?”

“Oh! You no start to cry! Das berry not good!” She said while rolling her eyes and shoving me back down.

“Then, is it socially acceptable if I quietly pass out?” I whispered.

She sighed as if terribly put upon by a stupid woman and said, “You just howd still.”

And like that, she really got started. Rip. Wax. Rip. Wax.
And I continued. Yelp. Whimper. Yelp. Whimper.

The female genitalia has over 6000 nerve endings in less that 5 square inches.

You know how there are times, god forbid, that you are zipping up your pants and you catch a stray curly in the zipper and before you can save it you have a tear-jerk response that travels at light speed from your yaya to your tear duct? Now multiply that feeling by 6000 and multiply again by 32 strips of waxing fabric and you might just come close to imagining what it feels like to have mass deforestation of the v-thatch. All this while I babbled, whimpered, squirmed, reasoned, tried to leave once, muttered, pretended to ignore her and the pounding pain and even tried to count but couldn’t get past 43.

Mindi wasn’t shy, and had no qualms about just rooting around in there or trying to hoist a leg up to a better angle or complaining out loud that I apparently use Nair, as it has given me, “Berry stubborn hair!” She complained about this half a dozen times and I wanted to shout at her, “I doubt it’s the Nair, I mean honestly, my poor little hairs are probably scared shitless because they know you are trying to yank them out by the roots! They are just holding on for dear life!”

Mindi fussed over my parts and grumbled in Vietnamese occasionally slipping into English for things like, “Nair. Berry bad.” Grumble. Grumble. Vietnamese. Grumble. “Dis berry stubborn. Berry bad.”

I don’t know about anyone else, but the last thing I want to hear from a trained professional between my legs is the phrase, “Berry bad.”

In between these moments, she asked a lot of questions – I suspect to keep me talking and focused. “You do dis for you husband?”

“No. I’m not married.”

“Ah, you boyfriend? You have big party?” She asked with a wink.

“No, I don’t have a boyfriend either.”

I saw by her look that she thought about asking if it was for my girlfriend but instead she asked with more than mild disbelief, “you do it jus for youself?” She paused and looked at me, “Why you do dis?”

“Well, I wanted to know how I would react to it. I didn’t want to think I’d try it for a special occasion of something and discover that I broke out in hives, or a rash of ingrown hair, or you know, possibly died.”

She snorted, “You no gonna die!” She rolled her eyes and went back to the pot for another glob of wax.

After what seemed like years, she said, “Watchyou think?”

I lifted myself up and looked down at my mutilated hoo-ha. I couldn’t believe how close her face was to my snatch as she poked around and when she looked up she appeared disgruntled and reached for a pair of tweezers…

“Oh! No, no you don’t need to do that… it’s o-KAY!!!”

Clearly unconcerned with my opinion, Mindi gleefully plucked me like a dead chicken and I flopped backward onto the paper covered table and thought, “This was” PLUCK “a really” PLUCK “really bad” PLUCK “idea”.

While it seems to go on forever, the human brain does the time warp when its all over and when she said, “Okay, You done.” I sat up faster than I’ve ever sat up in my life and it was like I had just walked into the tiny blue room a second ago. I was throbbing from the waist down but I was absolutely ready to go home and cry about it in private. I couldn’t wait to get someplace safe so I could make sure there was still a little man in the boat.

“Okay. Now roll over.” She said.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Roll over. You roll over now.”

“Why?” I asked with dawning horror, a lump of fear building in the pit of my stomach. No-longer-pregnant-Ninja had teased me that a Brazilian included the butt crack but I totally thought she was joking. “You’re not going to do what I think you plan on doing, are you?” I didn’t even recognize my own voice.

“You no completed till we get all of it. Roll over now and howd open.” She reached behind her back and gripped her own cheeks to show me how I was expected to behave.

More out of confusion and disbelief – I did exactly what she told me to do and I rolled onto my belly and YUP! I spread my own cheeks and at that very moment, as the humiliating and dehumanizing loss of my dignity came crashing down upon my awareness and I knew – just knew I was going to have to blog this ridiculous farce – I burst into uncontrollable laughter.

I didn’t just chuckle. It wasn’t a simple ha-ha. It was a full belly, ass jiggling, abrasively loud snorting laugh. I sounded like a wild, braying beast with my face pressed against the paper of the table and my body left nothing to the imagination as I guffawed loud enough for the entire salon to hear. Yes, folks, for the record, a Brazilian Wax does in fact include your ass crack.

“See! Its no even hurt! You laughing!”

“It’s more funny than painful,” I gasped between laughing and I continued to laugh as she spread the wax and let me tell you guys – you have no idea what kind of pucker power you have until the moment an aesthetician sticks hot wax in your crack and says, “Don’t move.”

I was still laughing as the appointment ended and still chuckled as I struggled back into my pants and waddled to the car with my butt cheeks glued together by residual wax.

The overall experience left me with this conclusion, THIS IS NOT SEXY! There was nothing remotely sexy about having some woman yanking hair from my cooch. There is nothing sexy about the swollen, red, aftermath of a “fashionable” treatment. There is nothing sexy about the bald yaya. There is nothing sexy about the second day itch. There is nothing anywhere fucking close to sexy about the regrowth bumps. There is nothing sexy about the stubble. Nothing.

THERE IS NOT ONE SEXY THING ABOUT THE BRAZILIAN WAX JOB.
Not. One.

And yet… I couldn’t stop laughing.

I hereby interrupt the previously scheduled Brazilian Wax blog with an impromptu date story.

I met Zeke last night at the Matchbox Lounge on Division at 10 pm. I’ve been talking to Zeke for a couple of months via email and texts. I won’t be shy in admitting that I really really liked him via the emails we shared and the way he communicated. So I was ridiculously giddy about finally meeting him. The only pictures I had of him were of his backside and while it was a lovely backside, I had no idea if we would have chemistry. It was a last minute phone call in the middle of a poker game with the guys that had me run to the Matchbox to meet up with him.

I will be honest and say there was no immediate chemistry on my side. But no worries, right? There doesn’t need to be spontaneous human combustion for good conversation and possibly friendship and then one day more, right? So I sat at the table with an open mind and thought to myself, “Let’s see what he’s got… stay open. Be ready for surprises. Be fluid. You can do this.”

For the record it’s been since about Christmas since I’ve been on a date. Before that we are talking August and then like 5 months before that. So all in all I can say I go on like four dates a year. Now, I know I’m getting ahead of myself here as it was a last minute and very impromptu invite to go out – but being as it’s the closest I’ve been to a real date in awhile… I’m counting it. So there.

I sat at the table and coached myself silently, “Don’t run away. Don’t run away. What would No-longer-Pregnant-Ninja say if you run away.”

We fell into conversation talking about poker and he asked if I wanted a drink and when I declined due to being on day 5 of the Master Cleanse (bad idea to drink on empty stomach) he offered his probably well intended yet unsolicited advice about the wisdom of “cleanses” which I promptly discarded and changed topics.

I asked about his recent trip to Japan and then asked what his next adventure would be and he said he hadn’t planned it yet. Then he asked, “What’s your next adventure?”

“I think my next adventure will be to learn to ride a motorcycle.” I smiled, actually quite excited about the idea of summer lessons.

To which he said something in regards of, “I would never do anything so crazy.” Then rattled off a couple of statistics. A few fears. The likelihood of ending up dead or paralyzed and finished with, “So that’s why I would hope you change your mind about that.”

To which I smiled, stiffly, “Hmm.” And changed the subject again. “Then my next travel adventure will be either New Zealand or Scotland, but for now I have some domestic adventures to accomplish first.” I said.

“I wouldn’t bother with Scotland. Go to New Zealand.”

“Have you been there?”

“No. But it’s more open and Scotland is full of old white people.” He added.

“And Scotland also has castles and men in kilts, I don’t see the problem here.”

Conversation rolled as is does, to new topics and exchanges and my original excitement wilted under what seeming like consistent pessimism or contradiction. I thought perhaps he’s playing Devil’s Advocate. Maybe that’s the role he’s used to so I’ll go along with that for a bit, but I should call my dad and let him know there’s someone out here in Portland who sounds just like him.

More and more I felt a sense of creeping disappointment. I tried to identify it but disappointment is usually fast on the heels behind the realization that there was an expectation I wasn’t aware of.

“So have you ever been married?”

“No.” He responded. “Have you?”

“Yes,” I admitted and gave a brief story.

“Well, actually, I was married once.” He confessed. “But it’s a long complicated story and I don’t really want to get into it but it’s just easier to say no to that question for now.”

“Why didn’t you just say that then?” I wondered.

“Because it’s complicated.”

I can understand that. Believe me. I get complicated. I get not wanting to talk about things the first time you’ve met someone or even ever. But I’m also a big girl and I can take an, “I don’t want to get into it.” Or “It’s a long story for another time.” Or “It’s none of your business.” And what I appreciate is that he backtracked and filled in the truth, but what I don’t do – is letting myself open up to someone whose instinctive response if less than truthful.

After that I was pretty much on guard and it started to make sense why he had spent the last couple of months being evasive about questions or neglecting to answer things by using a turn the question tactic. Something I brought up once in a conversation, and it suddenly seemed much more important and obvious in person.

As I felt myself slipping off into disinterest I threw out a question, “So do you like what you do?”

“No. I hate it.” Was followed by a sad explanation about how unhappy his is and he didn’t need to sell it because I could really tell, the guy is seriously dissatisfied. He trailed to the end with, “So I’m trying to find the old things that make me happy, the parts of me that I used to be happy with….”

It rang with a surprising resonance to what I had just been blogging about as in return to roots for bliss and such. It seemed terribly pertinent to the conversation so I thought I would volunteer my own opinion and antidotal about the Quest for Bliss – I’d sent him my link a few times so I didn’t want to repeat myself if he’d already read the post or the point of the BlissQuest so before telling him my story about recapturing happiness I asked, “Have you read the BlissQuest?”

“I have to be honest. I have not read the BlissQuest.” He apologized.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Really. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea but I was going to say –“

“I’m sorry, can I just say something.” He interjected. “I’m sure this doesn’t apply to you but I just hate people who write blogs. I mean people who blog are so pretentious to think they have something to say that anyone would want to read! I mean really! Who cares about what’s going on in these bloggers lives, right?” Just then he realized that he’d cut me off mid-sentence and said, “I’m sorry. You were saying?”

Truly, I don’t ever expect anyone to read, it’s there if they want to. It’s there if they want to know what’s going on in my life or hear the verbal bubbling of evolution in my mind – but the BlissQuest has never been and never will be an obligation. I guess this makes me pretentious.

But what ran through my brain at the precise moment he said, “you were saying?” was – “Go fuck yourself ya douche. While you’re at it why don’t you take your woe is me attitude about life and spastic inability to be truthful and honest and all your petty fears that you are trying to foist off onto anyone and fuck those too!”

But what came out of my mouth was, “Nothing. Never mind.” Pearls and swine.

Ultimately, I did stay a little longer and talk and knew my poker face was firmly fixed and prayed desperately that I would be able to pick up some hint that he was joking. It had to be a joke. There had to be something, right? Something that would reveal he wasn’t this way for real after such charming emails and spirited talks.

He walked me to Freya in the parking lot and I drove away making it all of two or three blocks before the tears again. Four dates a year and I cry after all of them. Usually, they bring up some facet that I know I can work on, some reflection of myself or my pattern that I can observe and fix or a trigger I can unwire.

Halfway home I was grateful I’d met him to put my curiosity and excitement to rest but also to help me take a good long look at where I’ve come from and what I’ve overcome.

Anyone who knows the whole story knows I don’t have small obstacles in my past. My story isn’t any better or worse than anyone else but I have enough in my history to be a truly unhappy person if I so chose to be. But right now it’s a choice.

I’ve come far enough that walking out of a date like that didn’t leave me full of fear or concern for my safety or let it derail my enthusiasm for adventures planned. I’ve come far enough that I didn’t scratch his face off or bolt in the middle of the date. (No-longer-pregnant-ninja would be so proud)

What it left me with was a new resolve to be strong and wait to be discovered. Discovered by someone who thinks I have something valid to say, or ideas worth hearing out. Discovered by someone who thinks my adventures are awesome, even if they are not adventures they would want for themselves. Discovered by someone who won’t give me probabilities of death and dismemberment but will say, “You want to ride a motorcycle? Let’s go do it together!” Discovered by someone who might think, “Yeah, she’s weird and maybe a little eccentric and excitable but I wouldn’t have her any other way.”

Waiting to be discovered….