Thursdays have often been at the top of my list of great days of the week. Thursdays are just, I don’t know, cool. They’re much better than Mondays, obviously, and often make Fridays seem like just a rich man’s Monday.
Today is not one of those Thursdays. It’s not that I’m in a bad mood, because I’m not, or that it’s raining, because it’s not, or that I saw a car completely engulfed in flames on the way to work this morning, which totally freaked my shit out. It’s just, today happens to be the day after Wednesday, the day I got a bikini wax.
It wasn’t the first bikini wax I’ve ever endured. In fact, I’ve had about a half dozen bikini waxes. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, used to the ripping and the tearing and the rending of my loins into shivering, hairless flanks.
But anyone who’s ever had the hair stripped from her groin with rectangular strips of hot wax knows that you’ll never get used to it. I mean, come on, it would be like getting used to being chased down and clobbered with a lead pipe every three to four weeks, only to have to tip the motherfucker who did it to you.
I happen to like the woman who administers my bikini waxes. Her name is Jeanette and she has a great ass. She’s appropriately gentle and attentive, often stopping between yanks to make sure I’m not dead yet.
Last night, however, I happened to be her last appointment of the day and my needy bikini area was the only thing standing in the way of her going home. I can understand how anyone in this situation would want to hurry things along; I, too, get antsy toward the end of the day wanting nothing more than to speed home, take off my shoes, and slam back a couple shots of tequila.
I’m quite certain, though, that if it had been her nether regions lying there helplessly on the operating table, she would never have so recklessly skinned those areas that needn’t be skinned.
Today, a Thursday that had all the potential to be one of The Greats, I’m left limping and bruised, stripped quite literally of my dignity.