The past few days I’ve woken up feeling hot and smelling like sweat.
Not bad smelling sweat like BO or something like that.
That stale, almost sweet smell of body.
I’ve also turned on my fan and opened my window.
I can hear all the high school kids and hipster vagrants outside scampping about.
Laughing, smokin’ their dopes.
I’ve removed my comforter and get tangled up in my sheet.
Or expose my one leg or just my ass.
Sometimes I’ll pile the blanket all on top of my head an wonder if I could make it the whole night like that.
This weather has even gotten me to start drinking the iced teas.
Now I don’t want to get too excited, knowing New York it could snow tonight but, I’m almost positive..
The warm air. The sun setting later. The night time that won’t cool off.
And the crazies who come out because of it.
It’s the summery smell of cement and noisiness of the city.
It’s because of the cabin fever. The anxiousness. The need to get out. The itch that makes me want to run and play and fuck directly around.
I want to go out on adventures and not return until I feel the thick sticky air that happens in the summer when the sun is coming up and the dew is really heavy or it’s just rained.
And the sky is pink and orange and yellow and blue.
I want to walk home with my partner in crime and laugh all night and be shushed by sleeping homeless people and not stop until we finally fall into a heap in a bed together, or a couch, or a strangers floor.
I want to wear jean shorts and hop around in the grass at Central Park with no shoes on, while getting drunk off cheap wine in the middle of the day with my best friends.
And I want to giggle at the dumb things only best friends giggle at.
I want to go to Syracuse/Albany/Buffalo/Auburn and just stand and look at them or could drive no where with the windows down and Van Morrison playing louder than the roar of the windows. I just want to see them, because I really miss them. I miss you best friends. Do you know that?
I want to throw a party in my small apartment and make the windows go foggy from being too close, laughing too loudly and dancing because you’re just drunk enough too.
I want to fall goofily in love with someone and wake up next to them feeling too warm to stay in bed but too comfortable to move. I want to kiss them openly in the street or secretly at a party. I want love notes and late night talks and playful teasing.
I want butterflies.
I want to do all the dumb things that are associated with summer.
All of them.
Then I’ll turn 24 in early fall when things start to smell like camping and home.
This will be the time I’ll consider being an adult,
and really reconsider what I’ve been doing for the last few months.
Then I’ll just as quickly disregard such a silly thing and buy a nice sweater to improve my mood.
So Meghan is a wonderful roomie and got me this deal off of LivingSocial.com (not to be confused with the early 90s series Living Single) that allowed me to get mani, pedi & waxing.
When I called to make the appointment they said that I had to choose between the mani/pedi or waxing because of time restraints. Meghan asked me if I wanted to get the waxing and she could get her nails.
To which I said..
Which means yes.
I know some people who have gone bald eagle this way and they always say the same things..
“It’s not that bad.”
“It’s worth it.”
“Take aspirin before.”
As most of you may already know, my love life has been running on empty. (Thank you Jackson Browne.)
So I decided to get all How Stella Got Her Groove Back minus Jamaica.
[I have officially decided to cram as many references into this entry as possible.]
I ignore all advice and warnings and do not take an aspirin or expect it to hurt too badly. I consider myself to have a relatively high threshold for pain.
I mean, I got a tattoo for 4 hours once.
Granted, I passed out..
And I get my eyebrows waxed all the time.
Or.. I use to get them. Now I tweeze.
I can’t afford to have anymore eyebrow hair unnecessarily removed.
Well.. this one time I stubbed my toe and my eyes only watered.
So I mean, I’m a regular Triple X. (Remember those movies?)
Anyway, the point is, I didn’t think it was going to be too terribly painful.
Some pain, yes. That is expected.
Before we get into the details of the actual waxing, let me paint you a picture.
The room that “the artist” and I are in is about 8 by 6 feet.
The artist is a middle aged Asian woman who’s name is Bildo, or Baguette, or Bigallo.
I don’t know, what do I look like? A Rolodex?
Inside this tiny dog house room, there is a bed thing, a cart of assorted waxes, my gangly ass and a WALL MIRROR.
“Take clothes off.”
Done, and done.
Crotch a blaze, I look at myself in the wall of mirror.
Wonderful, I think, a perfect view of my pale, ashy below-the-waist naked body.
“Lay dow. I give new tissue, very nice. Lay dow.”
I lay on my back and place my hands folded neatly on my stomach.
I feel like I should tell her how many partners I’ve had.
“Yeah. That obvious, huh?”
“Yeah you look sick. hee hee.”
“I think that’s just my skin tone. I feel fine.”
“Oh yeah, you need sun. Sun good.”
I go back to staring at the ceiling and try to avoid my own eye contact.
She slaps the blazing hot wax somewhere under my belly button.
Not quite the danger zone, just yet.
“Testa.” She says while looking directly at my box and not me.
Then she pushes down a white piece of cloth and rubs the flesh burning liquid deeper into my pores. She waits a second and with out any warning grabs a corner of the cloth and does a little jump up to, you know, to sufficiently tear my flesh from my body.
This tiny little woman turns to me with straight fury in her little eyes and says in a violent whisper..
“No flinch! It hurt more if you move. No move!”
I convince myself that the first time is probably the worst because you don’t really know what it feels like, and you’re nervous, and you probably just get use to it.
EVERYTIME Bilbo lays down a new pile of wax and does her torture jump, I flinch.
I can’t tell if she’s just really strong and is just lifting me up with her industrial strength wax or if I’m bleeding and things have become slippery.
I don’t know and everything hurts.
Things seem to be wrapping up.
My V is numb.
I do so.
Before I realize what’s happening she’s slapping wax and making moves.
And then, it’s all gone.
Everything is all gone.
“Alright all done. Now I powder.”
I feel confused and a draft. And she’s putting baby powder all over my junk.
I feel like, we should exchange numbers and make an uneasy promise to call each other.
I eye ball myself in the mirror and shit is all red and bumpy.
I’m afraid I’m having an allergic reaction.
“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH MY CROTCH!?”
“Wha? No it need to relax. Take showa, be fine. Tank you.”
She then shuffles out.
And I am left alone to decide if what I am looking at is still a vagina or not.
I decide that I’m not sure and I need Meghan’s help.
I throw on my mangy clothes and dash out in a fury.
She’s resting her hands sleepily over a desk and a woman is filing and painting.
“The wine made me sleepy.”
I look at the manicurist and try to determine how well she knows English.
I figure, who the fuck cares. I am potentially Buffalo Billin’ it.
“MEGHAN. They waxed my asshole.”