So this trip that Hubster and I took last month...it was the first adult vacation we'd taken together in SEVEN YEARS. We realized as much when we were booking our trip for the week after our wedding anniversary, and I began to let the enormity of that statement sink in.
Seven years ago I was a tall, thin, blonde young thing of twenty-five. I had no sagging parts what-so-ever and no c-section scars. I had no crow's feet and my arse was quite a bit smaller. Like many brides-to-be, in preparation for my Big Day, I got highlights in my hair, visited the tanning booth and had my teeth whitened. I stuck to a rather strict diet for months on end, wanting to look good in my big poofy white dress and the bikini I'd purchased for our honeymoon in Acapulco.
A far cry from where I was sitting this past March when we booked our trip. FAR.
It was pretty depressing to think about -- how much of my body and myself I've given up to have a family. Don't get me wrong - I wouldn't trade them for the world or have done anything any differently. Its just...WOW.
Now, I did have going for me the fact that some months prior I kicked myself in the pants and decided I needed to lose some weight. I was a size 12 - not big by any means - but quite a bit larger than I had been. My baby was THREE...there was no longer any excuse to be carrying any "baby weight", and "toddler weight" was just a load of bull. For months I'd been cutting the calories, making a point to get in more exercise and doing a little free-weight and yoga at home.
By March? I was back in a 10. (Halelujah, angels sang!) This was just enough motivation, as we planned our vacation details, to keep going.
What if I went the extra mile and "spruced myself up" a bit for the Hubster, the way I did back in 2003? I mean, its sad to think that us gals only get one day to dress up like a pretty pretty princess, with our hair perfect and skin perfect and prettied up beyond belief, right? ONE DAY in our entire lives...when we're so young...why couldn't we have just one more?
And so it began. It wasn't easy...I practically had to steal time to get my eyebrows threaded (I was late to meet my extended family one night because it was the only night I could get to the mall to have them done and that my hubby was off work to be with the boys). Hubby had to stay up after working an overnight shift so that I could go get my hair done one Saturday morning. My Dad babysat another day so that I could shop for a few new vacation outfits after I made it back to a size eight. (I haven't been a size eight since HIGH SCHOOL.)
We're busy people. I squeezed time out of every place I could think to find it.
And then I had one more thought...
There was just one more thing I'd never done before...
It was a little gutsier...
Quite a bit more "adult"...
And a hell of a lot more painful.
That's right -- I decided that the Hubster deserved a bikini wax.
Now, as I write this, I realize that is such twisted logic. But at the time I thought he'd look at his hot piece of wife who looked pretty darn good for poppin' out two heifer-sized children -- who also happened to be hair free -- and feel like he was 18 again, and that I would be instantly irrisistible. Heh. Heh heh heh. Ha ha!!!
I'm such a girl.
Anyway...by the time I'd worked up the nerve, the only appointment I could get was the Friday before we left for our trip, after work. The problem? Hubster had training that evening. Four hours on the shooting range.
So I told the sitter that I had an "appointment" and asked if she could watch the boys a little later than usual.
Did I mention I was going to keep this little gem a surprise?!?
And like a good broad, I was teasing him with hints of this "great surprise" that he was going to "really really love" and that I was going to give him on Friday?!?
Which is why, when I picked the boys up on Thursday, I was a bit shocked to hear he had decided to share his excitement for said surprise with the FREAKING BABYSITTER. (I believe the conversation went a little something like this: HER: "So, someone's excited about his anniversary gift!" ME: "Whuh?" HER: "Yeah, Jay says you've got some big surprise planned for your anniversary." ME, THINKING QUICKLY: "Uh...I don't have any surprise. I don't know what he's talking about. That's so weird that he'd think I had a surprise..." HER, CLEARLY SENSING HOW FULL OF CRAP I WAS: "Oh! Guys... They get the details for EVERYTHING wrong!")
So Friday...the big day. The Day of the Wax. I'm nervous but not overly so. I finish up work and drive to the spa. While pulling into the parking lot, I get a text from a friend. I go inside, check in, and the receptionist leads me back to a very dark, very zen waiting room. There are teensie little twinkly lights in the ceiling, new age music playing low on the stereo, and very comfy reclining chairs to ooze down into and relax.
And then my cell phone goes off again.
What an ass, hey? I mean, GOSH -- some people's kids!
So I turn the ringer off on my phone and sit in the tranquility of the Zen room to wait for my "procedure" and send text messages.
To multiple friends who now realize I am getting a bikini wax and are texting me to jeer and berate me about it and basically make me want to pee my pants about the whole ordeal.
Eventually, the Waxing Chick comes to retreive me and I'm lead to another equally dark room with equally New Agish music where I am told to put on disposable mesh panties. No, I take that back. "Panties" would imply that they covered the "pantal-region" and these did not. These were like a 4"x8" rectangle of see-through mesh attached to a 1/4" wide elastic band that circled the waist loosly. They didn't really cover anything.
But I'm a Mom, and people have seen my "parts" and "parts" were what this woman waxed all day long. I was sure there wasn't anything she hadn't seen before.
So when I'm done changing into the Nearly Invisible Want-to-be Panties, Waxing Chick comes back and we get started. I'm not going to lie to you. It was probably the worst experience of my life. It hurt like hell and at the end there wasn't even a freakin' BABY to show for my pain.
We get like, two strips in and I hear my phone vibrate in my purse. I silently curse my bastard friends for continuing to be assholes. Three strips later and its buzzing again. I start to make mental plans as to how I'm going to get them back. A few strips later and I hear a second, noticably different buzzing sound. Ahhh...my work Blackberry. Great. Now I'm lying on this table in this zen-like new-age-ish room getting my pubes ripped out by the roots and I'm getting texts from friends AND emails from work.
The buzzing continues, and as she continues to torture my downstairs lady bid-ness with her Strips of Death, the Waxing Chick actually comments on how busy of a person I must be. Not quite able to form enough intelligible words so as to make conversation with her, and not wanting to distract her from a job that needs her very close attention, I just nod and smile and pray my session is nearly done.
Only I start to think: What if something happened to my kids at the sitter's and she's the one calling me because my husband is busy on the freakin' gun range and can't hear his cell phone to know there's trouble?
I start to picture kids holding fractured arms who've fallen out of trees. Kids with scraped and bloodied knees who've crashed their bikes. Kids who ran with scissors and got them lodged in their eyeballs.
I start to wonder if Waxing Chick would mind handing me my phone.
Nah...that would be silly...
UNLESS...what if the reason that Hubster couldn't answer the phone when the sitter called him was because there was some horrible incident on the GUN RANGE wherein he was accidentally shot in the FACE or some other necessary organ? And what if at JUST THAT VERY MOMENT he was lying in a hospital bed BLEEDING and the incessant buzzing was the Captain of the Sheriff's Department trying to tell me to COME QUICK because he's FADING FAST...
I half wanted to get up and grab the damned thing myself, but I told myself I was being silly. I mean, I might get my waxy crotch-parts stuck to my shirt. And THEN what would I say to the sitter?
Instead, I waited patiently, trying to keep breathing like they teach you to do in those pre-baby classes, telling myself no one was really dying and only half believing myself.
FINALLY finally finally, Waxing Chick is done and she leaves me alone to change and admire her torture/handiwork. I, of course, sprint across the room to grab my phone instead.
I find it in my purse, hit a button to bypass my texts and to get the "missed calls" list and see who's called three times. Not the sitter. Not some Sheriff's Deputy from the hospital. MY MOTHER.
And before you can wonder, I immediately knew there wasn't anything wrong with her. She just knows exactly the right moment to reach out and touch someone.