Exciting news! I’ve just been nominated for a WordPress Award in the Least Prolific Blogger (Overseas) category…but as I was hoping to win the Funniest and Best Written Blog (Those Three Streets Between The Football Stadium and The River in North-West Rome) category, I thought it was about time I got off my arse and wrote another post.
Last week a ‘friend’ invited me to go swimming at her gym later that afternoon. I’m not an enthusiastic swimmer, mainly because it requires revealing my body to the general public, but as I’m on (yet another) health-kick, I agreed.
I couldn’t lose two stone in three hours but, as I was rocking the winter look, I thought I ought to spruce myself up a tad with a last minute bikini wax.
I found a supermarket own brand waxing kit which, despite being €5 cheaper than the well-known brands, had 500% greater adhesive qualities. When I attempted to remove the first wax-strip from my nether regions, it refused to come off, instead clinging to my skin like a very determined leech.
Obviously, a tougher approach was called for so I braced myself and, with a Maori war cry, yanked for all I was worth. The wax-strip successfully ripped away in my hand, bringing both unwanted hair and the top layer of my skin. Beads of sweat glazed my forehead and a solitary tear dripped down my face as I tried to remember the meditation techniques I’d been taught to cope with the pain of childbirth. Unfortunately, even tantric sex with Sting couldn’t begin to lessen the agony of waxing one’s short and curlies with strips coated in Sticks Like Sh*t and I didn’t have gas and air to hand.
I was due at the pool in forty minutes and I had a choice to make. I was looking rather askew: one side hair free, although rather battered and bruised; the other side still ‘70s porn star. I wasn’t sure if I could face the pain of waxing again. Should I get busy with a razor (which is fast and easy but brings its own problems of 5 o’clock shadow and subsequent crotch itch) or just go as I was and tell my friend that it was the latest bikini fashion?
The wax won. I applied a new piece and, took a deep breath, ready to wrench off the strip – just as the doorbell rang. Oh cacca. It would be the caretaker, Yoda, who delivers the post. If I didn’t answer the door, he would go, along with any post which I would probably never see again and, as I was waiting for a parcel from Amazon (this in itself shows that my optimism has never ending reserves. I keep ordering them…they keep not turning up. I live in hope), I needed to get to him before he disappeared. I grabbed my dressing gown and hobbled carefully to the door, where Yoda greeted me and began a protracted story about…who the hell knows? He doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak molto Italiano so all our (surprisingly long) conversations are a total mystery to me. We may be in a long-term relationship for all I know. I finally managed to say arrivaderci and shut the door on him before waddling back to the bathroom.
The wax strip was now stuck so firmly to my skin that not much short of a Black & Decker electric sander was going to remove it. I downed a medicinal shot of grappa, grasped the strip firmly in both hands and, exercising muscles that hadn’t been used since participating in my primary school’s annual tug-of war contest, ripped it off. The world went black as I waited for the grappa to take the edge off the pain.
Looking down, I let out a sob as I saw that the wax-strip had torn in two and only half had been removed; the other half was marooned in the midst of my lady garden like a backpacker lost in the bush. The handy non-waxed portion of the strip provided for removal was on the piece I’d already removed so there was nothing to take hold of. With a pair of tweezers, I gently began to lift up the edges of the wax-strip. Rather than an immensely painful but mercifully swift removal, this time each hair was plucked out individually, each accompanied by an ever increasing wail of pain, ‘Ow. Owww. OWWWWWWW!!!’
Finally, the strip was off. I used the rest of the grappa to remove the residue wax and took a look in the mirror. To be honest, it wasn’t looking good (unless a freshly plucked sunburnt chicken turns you on) and I was thinking that next time I’ll leave hair-removal to the professionals,* but at least I was ready to hit the pool.
I was digging out my seldom-used Speedo cossie (circa 1994) when I got a text: Something’s come up, not going to make it to the pool. Maybe next week? Sorry!
*This does not mean Bodie and Doyle…