Shooters, waxing and relationships

I had a rough one last night. I could feel it when my mouth tasted like ash this morning and my head felt like it has been attacked by a swarm of killer bees. My eyes felt like they had seen the great light of God like Paul in the Bible, so I decided to just stay in bed thinking: this too shall pass.

I guess it's because my sister sent an email (so very impersonal) telling everyone she's taking the girls and going to the beach house for a few days (obviously she can't go to work looking like a blow up doll gone bad) and being very vague about whether the husband would be accompanying them. So I went out with some friends last night and ordered a shot for all the reasons relationships should be demolished from this planet. There was the "shotgun", "gorilla's puke", "eat hot death", "satan's piss" (not for the faint hearted that one thanks to the Tabasco), the "shot of respect" and many, many others with one highlight as always: absinthe. I don't remember much after I saw my green fairies. I think it's for the best.

Turns out Chris brought me home and also stayed the night (not in my bed though, people!) because after my rude awakening he served me brunch in bed. I felt like a queen (do queens get hangovers?). He knows how to make my eggs just right: the yolk extra hard (runny yolk always makes me think of a baby chicken's blood). The bacon needs to be slightly crispy accompanied by butter with toast (yes, I like drowning everything in calories) with honey bush peach tea and the spoon still in the cup.

I think Chris is actually the only man apart from my dad and brother who has seen me first thing in the morning. All the other men I've ever brought back to my house had the option of leaving straight after or sleeping on one of the couches in the living room which aren't so user friendly as I bought them for style and definitely not comfort. Why don't I let them share my bed? They fart, they snore, they steal the blankets, they kick, they talk and say weird things that make no sense in their sleep, they smother me and call it cuddling, their breath smells like carton soaked in water the next morning when they want to kiss and be all funky monkey and as I'm not a morning person, I can't deal with their crap and issues that early.

I didn't ask any questions about my antics of the previous night and Chris was gracious enough not to tell. Over breakfast we just talked about everything and nothing as usual and then he asked me when I was going to get ready for my appointment at the beauty salon as the lady who always does my waxing phoned earlier to confirm. I completely forgot about it and jumped out of bed, into the shower and just threw a random shirt and a pair of jeans on.

"I have to tell you something before you go," he tried to grab my arm when I was reaching for my car keys.

"Can't you tell me when I get back? They get really upset when clients are late and then sadistically take it out on their pubic hair."

"That was on a need-to-know-basis and I did not need to know that, woman!"

I laughed and quickly kissed him on the cheek.

"Wait for me? I'll make us some supper tonight and you can spill the beans over a warm cuppa afterwards."

"You cook?! I'll just get us take outs instead." He knows me so well.

Seems like I'm speeding everywhere these days, but at least I got to the salon on time.

Waxing has never been a fun experience for me, but it's one of those ten things in life I just have to do. While I was lying on the bed with the warm wax on my legs I thought of how much waxing is related to relationships.


Waxing hurts. A LOT. And the worst part is that you know it's going to feel like the flesh is being ripped off your body, but you still choose to go. No one is holding a tazer gun to your neck forcing you to do this and unfortunately we missed the rule of the feminist where it was a statement not shaving any type of hair, halleluja amen ;-). Some women even like the pain in a way; maybe it reminds them that they're still alive, maybe they just like torture. It's like that one guy in your past that always had a bad influence on you: he keeps showing up the way your body hair grows back and you have to make another appointment with the lady in the pink overalls. Maybe it's better to shave; at least afterwards you can throw away the old razor blade and welcome the new, fresh, sharp one to your bath or shower.

Oh, and the "something" Chris had to tell me? He has a new girlfriend. The end.