I hesitate to begin pointing out noteworthy waxing experiences, because let’s face it:  there’s little that isn’t noteworthy about having a stranger instruct you to spread your legs, slap baby powder on your ladybits, and  rip each hair from its follicle, all the while maneuvering labia and tweezing strays.  Still, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, so let’s go.

My first stand-out experience came just before our summer family vacation.  While I planned on hooking up with no one, I thought better of going on a Caribbean cruise with a bush.  But my mani-pedi ran late, so I missed my waxing appointment.  Woe is me.

I was forced to get waxed as a walk-in.  This is never good.  For starters, you never know what kind of wax they might use.  Then there’s the concern about double dipping the spreading stick, and the possibility of a generally oogie waxer.  But I encountered none of these problems.  No, instead, my waxing artist politely showed me to my room, told me to “get ready” (Where’s the mood lighting and sexy music?  Goddammit, I’m not a machine!), then joined me once I was spread eagle on the table.  She showed me all their wax options and together we chose the best one for me. 

Then she excused herself for a moment while she cooked some noodles in the waxing microwave.

Yes.  There I was, in all my nekkid glory, waiting patiently to be manhandled, and all she can think about is dinner.  Now I can’t exactly put my finger on why that’s so disturbing, but let me assure you, it is.

A few weeks back, I tried a new place that was actually pretty good.  But the small talk was…weird.  She wanted to know why I waxed, if my boyfriend liked it, etc.  We won’t talk about her offering to remove any ingrowns.

Then there was last night.  My usual place wasn’t answering their phone (I swear to God I’ll stop complaining about the price if they’ll just come back to me), so I went to a place my friend has recommended.  I’m lucky to have survived.

It’s probably impossible to bleed out from Brazilian waxing, but if it’s not I’m sure I was teetering on the edge.  She didn’t bother to hold my skin taut before ripping, and I think she got some weird pleasure from burning my chach with the boiling wax.  And we mustn’t leave out her ass waxing technique.

I’ve had the back door waxed a few different ways.  (I’ll tell you with complete confidence that the undercarriage is far more painful than the brown eye, but far less awkward.)  My Atlanta waxer, God love her, would have me lay on my tummy.  She’d hold one cheek while I help the other.  Wax was slathered on, removed, and I was on my way.

New Yorkers are another breed; most places here have you put your legs in the air, bent, as if preparing to have your diaper changed.  It’s the worst.  But it’s quick, easy, and over.  The torture-waxer from last night had my lay on my tummy and hold BOTH cheeks.  So there I am, pillow-biting (wearing my glasses, which are squishing against my face as I suffocate to death), holding an ass cheek in each hand and struggling for oxygen…all while a stranger pulled the hair out of my crack.

And I paid for that.

As I drew what I thought would surely be my last few breaths, I considered the life of a woman.  We pay strangers to torture our hoo-has into silky smooth havens – about $60 a month, in fact.  Eyebrows are something like $10 every two weeks.  Nails are about the same, and pedis run about $30 a month (if you’re gross like me and put it off as long as possible).  My birth control is $75 a month, and I pay about $350 to get my hair done every 8 weeks.  There’s a lot I’m leaving out.

What I mean is that we’re paying about $5,000 a year just to get in fair enough shape to get laid.  Next time BCSABF wants to pay for dinner, I’m not arguing with him.

I’m having one of those moments.  I’ve worked through things with C in my head over and over, but they keep coming back.  So here I am at nearly midnight on a Monday, my face soaked in salty, burning tears, with letters from C clutched to my chest and strewn about my bed.  It never.stops.hurting.

It’s the shattered sense of security that’s so hard to cope with.  I would have bet my every penny that what we had was special enough to endure.  And it was, but we didn’t fight for it hard enough.

After we broke up, C would often show up on my doorstep in tears.  We would hug long and hard, and he would come inside so we could rehash everything that was going on.  He was right there.  I could touch him.  I could sink into his embrace.  I want it back; the security, and the comfort.

Some things should never be so broken.

Sometimes C brought letters, and sometimes he mailed them to me.  I keep them all inside a book he gave me, and pull them out for a cathartic cry more often than I’d like to admit.  They are full of the kinds of words everyone wants to hear.

“I know that I’ve made mistakes in the past, but the only one I can even remember is letting you slip away from me because it is the only mistake that matters…Nothing good that happens is very good at all if I can’t share it with you, and nothing bad is as bearable without your help…I want to grow old sharing a life with you, because I want to have my best friend, most trusted companion, and lover to all be found in the same person.”

“You are comfort, you are warmth, you are longing, and you are joy.  Wherever you are, for me, is home.”

“I don’t believe in the power of prayer.  In spite of this, I find that I cannot help myself.  Every day I pray that one day you will come back to me.  It is a habit I intend on continuing for whatever good it may do.”

And his most striking words:  “If you could change things, would you?”

I wish I knew.  No, but I do want my sense of wholeness back again.  There is a gaping hole in my heart where C used to belong, and I’m afraid it doesn’t even want to heal.

I am positively paralyzed by fear.  Fear of love, of loss, and most of all working my way into a place where I might feel this stabbing pain again.  The feeling manifests itself in some fucked up ways, and I don’t want to lose someone else great because of it.  Living numb, and terrified, is no way to live, but it’s not going anywhere.

I’m glad C wrote these letters on heavy paper that doesn’t fall apart as easily as I.

“Of course.  We couldn’t keep our hands off each other,” I replied.

“God,” he started seriously, “that must have been exhausting.  I do not want to have sex again right now.”

So yeah, you might say things have changed between us, and I say it’s for the best.  He is the best.  In light of what’s been happening between us (keep reading), and some timely, frighteningly close-to-home blog posts I’ve read, I’ve had a lot on my mind.

God do I know what it’s like to feel blindsided, to have your security blanket ripped off.  I also know what it’s like to be afraid to open up and let someone in, and to do it anyway – because I decided it’s worth it.

Two weeks ago, BCSABF and I were talking about moving in together.  His roommate is moving to Texas, so he was either finding a roommate, or making space for my stuff.  I thought long and hard and decided I wanted to take the leap.  I won’t get into the gory details, but he decided he wasn’t ready.

I love BCSABF, and I want to make us work.  Fulfilling relationships are about deciding that they’re going to work, all the time.  Deciding when I hate his smug, independent nature that he has dimples cute enough to make up for it.  Deciding when his hair has been cut too short that I love how traditional he is underneath his chill façade.  Deciding when I’ve had one too many vodka sodas and a hot man is asking for my number that I have something better at home.  Knowing that there is always something, someone, “better” out there, but that this is the man I’m choosing to be with today, tonight, and tomorrow…and acknowledging that, despite my sheer perfection, he’s having to do the same thing with me.

The fairytale that you find someone and are blissfully happy forever isn’t necessarily impossible.  It’s just that the happiness is a decision, not a happenstance.  He’s not going to want to be with me every day.  I can’t be afraid of that, because it is simply reality.  But that doesn’t mean he won’t choose to be with me anyway.

BCSABF is accepting a new job at the end of the week.  For now, it’s a dream job for him, and he deserves it.  I am happy for him, genuinely.

Selfishly, I can’t stop fearing that it’s going to tear us apart.  We’ve worked so hard to get to this place; a place where we’re friends, and close ones at that, who call each other first with joys or disappointments, and let our guards down like we mean it. 

It was hard enough to accept that he chose to live with a stranger over living with me, but I worked through it.  Now I’m struggling with the fact that his decision is going to mean we see a lot less of each other when he starts working twelve-hour days.  Under the same roof, it would be so simple for me to support him.  He could come home to piping hot dinner, and I could scratch his back and head when he gets stressed.

Now I’m afraid that my wanting to see and support him will instead come across as nagging.  He will be tired at night, and he won’t want to stay at my place when he has to get up at 5 am.  I know myself, and things crumble when I feel like I’m chasing.  It’s frightening how much this situation parallels the unraveling of C and I; he was working long hours, I was missing him, and we had a hard time meeting in the middle.  He and I shared a condo, and a bed.  Yikes.

I learned with C that the second you let negativity creep in, you’re setting yourself up for failure.  I’m not sorry about the way things ended, but it did teach me a hard lesson:  when you have something worth saving, save it.  Push everything else aside and focus on what you want, and what you can do to keep it.

What’s tough about relationships is that it’s not 100% up to me.  But I can only do my part.  For now, I’m going to focus on the positives:  This is good – very good – for him, and for our future, if we can make it work.

Earlier this week, I passed her office as she walked out.  “I like your dress,” she said sincerely, “it’s very flattering.”  I thanked her, and started down the hall to the ladies’ room.  She wound up her Luigi legs and passed me.

I knew I was in for a treat.

She beat me to the door and held it open behind her, asking, “Are you coming in?”  Suddenly, I felt invited to her dinner party; here she was, entering her home, and inviting me – little old me – to join her.  I thanked her again, and followed her inside, passing up what is generally known as her stall in favor of one that doesn’t require a reservation.

Should I have brought wine to this shindig?  She does remind me of a hobbit – what is it they eat in the Shire anyway?  Perhaps I needed a loaf of bread, or an assortment of ales to offer my hostess.

As I sat there, I let my hobbit fantasy unfold.  It was propelled further as I heard her begin her ritualistic whispers in the stall two doors down.  Suddenly, it was clear.  Gollum!  Smeagol!  She’s not praying – she’s talking to the ring.

All at once, my friends were there.  Frodo and Bilbo Baggins were dancing.  Mary and Pippin bickered while Samwise Gamgee tried to protect Frodo from Gollum down the way.  I kicked off my shoes and willed my feet to grow six sizes so I might fit in.  The day was looking up.

Of course, it wasn’t long before the rug that was my Shire fantasy was yanked from beneath my feet by the reverberating of PLPP’s asshole, ripping through my quiet time like the seam on Oprah’s size 8 pants.  But it was nice while it lasted.

The first was the night before last, and I was scolded by a member of our operations team at work.  He often yells, and I sit right near his desk at work, so I witness each tirade.  They haven’t yet been directed at me in real life, but I definitely got reamed in my dream.  That wasn’t the worst of it.

Surely you all remember Poo Lady Poo Pants.  Well, in my next dream, we were presumably headed to Six Flags in a church van.  I don’t know why I know this, but I do.  I shared a bench with PLPP.  We were chatting about the weather when she started to…well, poo.  First, she tooted noisily, in her usual fashion.

Someone in the back seat piped up.  “Shouldn’t you use a condom if you’re going to do that?!”

PLPP was offended.  “It’s my body, I’ll do what I want!  None of you understand my…problem!”

She kept doing it.  Tooting, pooing, tooting, pooing.  I rode with my head out the window like a golden retriever.

And then I woke up.  Thank God.

I am sick.

I’ll not get into the details here and now, because it’s personal, and beyond that I can’t stand the thought of hurting him more.  Whether it’s my fault or not, BCSABF is hurting, and I want to take it away.  I would take it away.

The silver lining is that these bumps in the road serve as reminders to both of us that we care more than we even realize.  Things have changed so much between us, and I’m finding myself admiring who he is; how he perceives things, intellectualizes them, and deals with them.  Honestly, that’s not something I ever expected to feel with him.

I love him so much, and right now am very much in love with him.  It’s refreshing to have that bond with someone.  I finally have from him what I knew was there.  What I’ve wanted all along.

It was worth the wait, and when we get through this, we will be stronger for it.  I’m lucky to have such a great man.  For the first time since C, I feel like I have someone who wants to be – and has the capability to be – the partner I want and need.

I’m not going to do anything to fuck it up this time.

Yeah, I said that.  It’s part of a little thing I like to call “casual summer Fridays” at the office.

I kid…about the casual Fridays, not the semen.  BCSABF just had bad aim last night before he left town for the weekend, and once he left I studied until the wee hours.  I hit snooze this morning thinking, “I’ll just throw a ponytail and headband on my head today, no one will know my hair is dirty.” 

What?  I showered, both last night and this morning. 

I just forgot to wash the sperm out of my hair.

Everyone knows I love(d) C.  So, so much.  We had only been broken up for a couple of months when I started long distance dating/marathon fucking BCSABF.  And because I’m more paranoid than a college freshman after smoking 86 bowls, I thought I was sleeping with someone who shot egg-finding miracle rockets instead of sperm, and was pregnant approximately 43 seconds after BCSABF and I had sex.  Every time.

After patiently listening to me obsess over/flip serious shit about/name the fetus BCSABF and I would eventually abort or raise, Sister suggested that I take a pregnancy test so I could stop worrying.  And calling every hour on the hour to report that I had not yet gotten my period.

Damn those things get expensive when you take 8 a day.  Sister told me I could buy some cheaper ones on Amazon, and I did.  Genius, I thought!  My friends and I would never have to ask the cashier at Walgreens unlock the prego test cabinet again!  I placed my order of 12, closed my laptop, and promptly forgot about the order.

I got a phone call from C several weeks later telling me I had a package at his condo.  I’m an idiot, remember?  So of course, I told him I hadn’t ordered anything from (insert non-Amazon seller’s name here), and it must be a mistake.  He asked if he should open it.  Having never had anything to hide from him, of course I said yes.

When he announced that I was now the proud owner of 12 pregnancy tests, I almost birthed a child right there.  Totally stumbling over my words, I made up some shit about how Sister must have ordered them from my computer last time she was in town without realizing I was logged in.  C is not as stupid as I am.  He was like, “order date, _____.  Was she in town then?”  And then, “Oh, bill to A.  At this address.”  At that point, I blacked out, but I probably said something about immaculate conception and having God speak to me earlier in the month.

Sigh.  Let this be a lesson to you:  change your address on your Amazon profile, people.  Or at least turn off your one-click ordering capabilities if you start sleeping with someone new and convincing yourself that you’re having his child.

I suppose it didn’t help my case that I immediately stopped by to pick them up.  But you know what?  A friend came over last night to use one of those tests, and she didn’t have to spend a dime.

So there.

If someone who loves you tries to include you repeatedly in friend/family activities and you blow her off, she will want to kill you.  She will also stop thinking of you as someone who is worth fretting over.   And probably invite someone else.

I’m not saying I want him back.  Just that I continue to understand my attachment to him more thoroughly with time.

To me, this is the best thing in the bible (I’m not at all religious).  Spot on, and 100% true of my relationship with C.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preserves.”

– 1 Corinthians 13:4-7