9:15 a.m. Body weight 126 pounds.
9:49 a.m. Body weight 121 pounds.
How did I do it?
Wax! Steaming, simmering liquid doused onto my underarm, bikini, and leg area in descending order of pain. Pain-induced sweat accounts for two lost pounds. The remaining three pounds were the locks of hair being ripped from my calves, pits, and groin. Yes, it was a lot of hair. Shaving and waxing are not high on my "to do" list . . ever. OUCH-EEE-MAMA! We women are insane. Okay, let me make it more personal. I'm crazy!
It's tough to decide what is more ridiculous. Paying a professional to lay strips of cloth on my wax-covered skin, and then R-R-I-I-I-P-P-P-I-N-G it off in a split second (hopefully) or an at- home waxing kit.
Next time, it's the kit!
FAST FORWARD: 5 MONTHS LATER, IN MY KITCHEN, HOME WAX KIT IN HAND.
Directions: "Melt wax in microwave." Okay.
"Take wooden lollipop stick and slather steaming wax on skin." I've birthed two children, so no problem.
"Firmly press a 2" x 10" cotton strip on wax-covered skin. Authoritatively, grasp strip and rip briskly from skin."
That all sounds too methodical. Instead, I'm going to apply the melted wax to all the necessary areas, adhere the strips, then rip them off in quick succession.
I get naked so I don't get wax on my clothes. I've accomplished steps 1 and 2, the slathering and adhering part. The white, cotton strips are clinging in disarray to my legs, pits, and crotch area. Now the ripping/stripping portion needs to commence, rather soon.
It's 1 p.m. Too early to unscrew that wine bottle . . . or is it? Somewhere in the world, we all know it's 5 p.m.
Instead of eating lunch, I have three glasses of wine. I'm confident that after a couple more, I will have no problem dislodging the mummified strips from my body.
"I'm starting to have fun," I say to myself, in a Boris Karloff voice.
A bath would be nice. The strips might come off and the hair along with it. I wonder how hot the water would need to be, 212 degrees? I feel like I've had too much to drink to safely take a bath. So, I might as well have another glass of wine.
It's now 5 p.m. Where has the day gone? Where has the wine gone? I haven't bathed, waxed, or dressed. This is not good.
Keys jingle in the door. My husband steps into the apartment. He takes it all in. The empty wine bottle, the waxing kit, the wine-splattered white strips stuck to my body, and somehow gets turned on.
"I get it," he smirks. "I'm the salon owner and you're my drunk client."
"Yeah, sure," I shrug. I figure it's one way to get these strips off.
Who'd of thought a home waxing kit would be so satisfying.
