Cautionary Tales of Poor Decisions

Or, perhaps more accurately:
A Particular Cautionary Tale of Making Decisions Like a Poor Person.

As you know, dear and loyal and supportive readers, I’ve been working a bit less in the past few months. Actually, lately I’ve been working a lot, I’ve just been getting paid a lot less. Ahh, experience.

And as you know as well, I’m nothing if not practical.

So, since I’m making a lot less money right now, I’m in turn making very wise and prudent and admirable decisions to spend less money. Alas, this means lifestyle changes. It means less socializing. Less shopping. I got rid of my Blackberry. Turn off the lights more often. Those kinds of various and sundry things.

More tough to process, it means cutting back on the little luxuries of life. Like, for example, giving up eating out and cooking for myself. My cooking has expanded from the usual Lean Pockets and Wheat Chex to include such delicacies as thin spaghetti and... other flavors of Lean Pockets. I’m practically a domestic.

And giving up my at-least-semi-regular mani/pedis. I can paint my own nails, right? Surely. I mean, I haven’t, because I don’t care that much about having painted nails and if you’re not going to have someone else massage your hands and trim your cuticles and just generally make you feel wealthy and pampered, what the hell’s the point?

And, to bring us up to point, waxing. You can already see where this is going, can’t you. You smart readers.

Yes, I decided today that I would try to combine two words that should never be found next to each other in a sentence: Self. Wax.
I bought the box. There were lots to choose from -- a surprising number, really -- and I opted for the cheapest (you’re welcome, financial advisor) that also boasted about being the least messy. I’m contacting their marketing department as soon as I’m done with this blog.
I came home, stripped down (yeah, I have my eyebrows under control... that wasn’t the area of primary concern...) and happily, nakedly, meandered over to the microwave mumbling to myself, in my best Miyagi (which, it turns out, is not very good), “ahhh.... wax on, wax off. Wax on, wax off.”

I was half right.

I got exactly one and a half strips into the process before realizing I’d made a horrible, horrible decision. Some things are just meant to be done outside the home. There’s a reason people, even (sorry, sorry) uneducated foreigners with little to no command of the English language, are paid handsomely to take care of certain things.

Let me just walk you through this, so I can drill home the importance of knowing that you are never, NEVER too poor to have someone else tend to your lady bits.

STRIP ONE.
Following the directions (to a T, I might add), I spread the thoroughly heated vat of wax onto the cheap wooden tongue depressor, dripped it (odd, since it clearly and specifically says "no drip formula" right on the box for anyone to see) all the way across my sink, onto the floor and a little bit of my standing foot (foot number two being strategically propped up on the counter for maximum access; yoga is good) and managed to spread an uneven glob of it onto my thigh. Not where I was aiming, exactly, but close enough. Spreading, as instructed, in the direction of the hair growth, I was feeling pretty confident that things were going well and I was an exemplary member of the lower middle class. Then I put the tongue depressor down and grabbed for the sheet of really thick paper used for ripping. Or, that’s what I was intending to do. Unfortunately, the wooden stick was stuck to my fingers. Well shit. But there’s no time to panic now -- just violently shake the damn thing off before the wax cools. Pull skin taut (easy, because my fingers are now stuck to my skin) and rip quickly in opposite direction of hair growth. Hmm. Rip, yes. Quickly, no. It was more of a slow, hesitant tug. Which managed to yield about four hairs. Not good odds, my friends, not good odds.

STRIP TWO.
Hard to imagine that after the Strip One story, there would be a Strip Two. I’m nothing if not persistent. So on went the next round of wax. On, again, to the counter, the towel next to me, and somehow or another, my stomach. Weird. Anyway. Just as I started to apply Strip Two to a delicate piece of property, I noticed a large, swollen, purplish blob where Strip One had just been. Hmm. Well that’s not pretty. You can’t even tell that there’s no hair there, because it looks like a boil. And I’m not going to do it again, even closer to Ground Zero. Buuuutttt.... there’s already wax there. My fingers are more or less useless because, apparently, I’ve washed them in the wax. I don’t remember doing that, but they are so covered that it seems to be the only possible explanation. I end up having to use the other, non-waxy end of the tongue depressor to scrape off the wax. I was as thorough as possible, and yet here I am, hours later, still sticky. Everywhere. Everywhere.

Seriously, you guys.

That’s a long story, I know. Thank you for sticking with me (shit) and I hope that you can take away the very valuable lesson that I’m trying to pass along. I'm nothing if not helpful.

Cook your own food. Paint your own nails. Leave some things to the experts, and tip them well. They’re earning it down there.