Oh SHIT, y'all-- it's SPRING.
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| But.. but, I'm not done hibernating... |
Preparing for this trip is a
MAYBE FIVE DAYS BEFORE- The first thing I freak about is my wardrobe. It sucks. It's completely unacceptable, we all know that-- but instead of hemorrhaging money I will try my best to make a few things I already own wor.. hahaha oh, I crack myself up! Sigh. (I wrote that for the Current Legal Spouse and the other 4 husbands that might read this blog.) Okay, fine-- I'll have a look-see. I excavate through layers of sweatpants and cable knit and somewhere around the Mesozoic Era of my closet I unearth some shorts. Eureka! I shake off the dust, peel off my yoga pants (which by now have fused to my thighs) and try them on. Holy hell, what asshole shrunk my shorts?! Oh yeah, it was that bastard Chester Cheeto and his flamin' hot deliciousness. Curses!
Do I have time to lose weight? No. Did I already eat those chocolatey laxatives? Probably. You know how I feel about exercise. Not a big fan. During this horrendous trying-on process I get a good look at my bare legs in the full-length mirror. Oof. They haven't seen the light of day in months and it shows. They are creamy white and veiny, much like two meaty drumsticks covered in blue cheese. Great-- now I want some buffalo wings.
I am a big fan of the "If You Can't Tone It, Tan It" motto, so I schedule a spray tan. You know, just for a little color. A pre-beach healthy glow is just what the doctor ordered to kickstart my summer look. Perfect.
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| So natural. So sexy. |
When I get back from my full-body auto paint job and stop dripping on the furniture, I try on a few more hideous outfits that no one in their right mind could possibly pack for a beach trip, and anyway, it's the shit I wore last year. C'mon! Unacceptable. Not to mention everything is now kinda covered in tanning solution... Time to shop!
I used to be hip. I used to wear nice things and get dressed up. Then I had kids and now everything I own is covered in boogers and Nutella. I need to jazz up my wardrobe for this trip, and fast. Also, just the fact that I used the term "jazz up" pretty much confirms that I'm old as fuck. I need the perfect beach attire. Oh, sure, I want to shop in stores like Forever 21, but the place is overwhelming and looks about as organized as downtown Beirut. Ain't nobody got time for that. Also, I live in constant fear of some salesgirl asking me if I'm lost or if I'm looking for my daughter in the dressing room. I might have to cut a bitch if that happened. Instead, I search for something a little more my speed. Age appropriate. My heart says Forever 21 but my driver's license says Ann Taylor Loft. I admit I often fall for the generic style and homogenized safety of the Loft. But I must resist-- I must stay hip! Which reminds me... my hip kinda hurts right now. I limp past Coldwater Creek-- because oh, hell no-- and run smack dab into the front door of a Chico's. I do enjoy those kicky commercials where all the women seem self-assured and accepting of their decaying bodies and vaginal dryness... Look out, world! I'm so Chico's! You go, girl ...er, ma'am! I look around to see if anyone is watching and step inside. I swear I can almost smell the bioidentical hormones they probably pump thru the air system. It lulls you into a false sense of sexiness. I practically feel like a teenager in here. It's nice. Too nice. Let me tell you what else these menopausal marketing geniuses do-- their clothes have a unique sizing system and guess what? I'm a size 0 in Chico's! ZERO! I'm never leaving this place! I am so fucking Chico's! I buy four pairs of size zero shorts faster than you can say "hot flash."
I practically skip out of the store, and I don't know what I was thinking-- I must have been snorting the Calgon, because then I decided to try on bathing suits. Maybe it was the combination of the spray tan fumes and buying size zero shorts. I felt invincible. I call it the "Chico's Effect." I think when the sales lady hugged me goodbye she got some hormone cream on my arm. Look out, world!
Ten minutes later I was stifling my sobs in the Dillard's dressing room while wearing a skirted floral tankini. I grab my iPhone and ask SIRI for one of those stupid LOSE TEN POUNDS IN FIVE DAYS! articles online. SIRI answers in her cold, automated tone, I FOUND SOMETHING THAT MIGHT HELP YOU, RACHAEL.
It's an article about decapitation. Bitch.
I turn my phone off and remove the detachable, matronly skirt of the tankini. Skirt? I don't need no stinking skirt! Um, wait, yes I do-- because it seems I've got some "bikini-area issues." It's been a long winter, if ya know what I mean. I've got a 'fro down below. My bush is trying to escape out of all sides of this bathing suit bottom, and I don't blame her; it's scary in there. Horrified, I grab my phone again and call the Pretty Kitty salon for an emergency waxendectomy. The receptionist says they're all booked up so I go ahead and text them a pic of my bikini area. Check. Mate. Thirty minutes later, I'm pants-less on a table with my legs spread, froggy-style. I don't know how many bikini waxes you've had, but I've had a few and it's always a very strange experience. Mainly because you find yourself apologizing for your vagina for one reason or another. But it doesn't even matter because these wax technicians, these angels of mercy, seem to really enjoy their jobs. I don't get it; maybe they are sadists? I don't know, but God love 'em for doing it. While they gleefully slather hot wax on your lady parts, they smile and get real chatty, like this is normal; just two gals having lunch or something. And then right in the middle of the friendly banter comes the searing, white-hot pain. "Oh, blah, blah hahaha"
...R-I-I-P-P
Is it worse than childbirth? Well, no... but they could easily offer epidurals and I would sign right up. I don't go in for the full Brazilian; I don't want to look like a 10 year old. I'm a grown ass woman. (Also, I've heard that middle part hurts like a mofo.) I just want a little off the sides, but she keeps ripping away. "Somewhere between Kojak and QuestLove," I caution her. But the girl is on a mission. She gets a little too into her work, and I end up with a Hitler.
After I pay a stranger to rip my pubic hair out, I limp home and instinctively soothe myself with a few Thin Mints. You know what tastes like shit? Thin Mints while you're wearing a Crest Whitestrip. I forgot I had one on. You'd think the minty flavor would compliment, but it doesn't, it really doesn't. I brush my teeth and take a good long, exhausted look in the mirror. What the hell am I doing? I look forward to this trip all year. No husbands, no kids-- just the girls having fun. But this is no fun. Jumping through hoops can really wear a girl out. After the crash diets, the shopping, the mani-pedis, the highlighting, waxing, buffing, tanning, fretting and crying, at the end of the day it doesn't mean shit. Nobody cares! All these girls want is me-- the real me. Unvarnished. And that's how I want them. They don't give a shit if I'm ten pounds heavier and look like Sasquatch. I'm sure they are worrying about their own fat, hairy, yellowing selves. They don't care if I'm wearing plaid goucho pants from 1979. They just want me there as I am, perfectly imperfect, to laugh and reconnect, the way we do every year. They love me as I am; why can't I do the same? It's my own stuff that causes the annual freak-out, but it's just something I go through. We all have stuff, but as I get older I find I have a little less stuff or I just don't give a shit about the stuff anymore. Perfection is overrated. I imagine that's the very best part of aging. Accepting yourself-- flaws and all. I could probably learn a thing or two from those women in Chico's.
Look out, world!
I used to be hip. I used to wear nice things and get dressed up. Then I had kids and now everything I own is covered in boogers and Nutella. I need to jazz up my wardrobe for this trip, and fast. Also, just the fact that I used the term "jazz up" pretty much confirms that I'm old as fuck. I need the perfect beach attire. Oh, sure, I want to shop in stores like Forever 21, but the place is overwhelming and looks about as organized as downtown Beirut. Ain't nobody got time for that. Also, I live in constant fear of some salesgirl asking me if I'm lost or if I'm looking for my daughter in the dressing room. I might have to cut a bitch if that happened. Instead, I search for something a little more my speed. Age appropriate. My heart says Forever 21 but my driver's license says Ann Taylor Loft. I admit I often fall for the generic style and homogenized safety of the Loft. But I must resist-- I must stay hip! Which reminds me... my hip kinda hurts right now. I limp past Coldwater Creek-- because oh, hell no-- and run smack dab into the front door of a Chico's. I do enjoy those kicky commercials where all the women seem self-assured and accepting of their decaying bodies and vaginal dryness... Look out, world! I'm so Chico's! You go, girl ...er, ma'am! I look around to see if anyone is watching and step inside. I swear I can almost smell the bioidentical hormones they probably pump thru the air system. It lulls you into a false sense of sexiness. I practically feel like a teenager in here. It's nice. Too nice. Let me tell you what else these menopausal marketing geniuses do-- their clothes have a unique sizing system and guess what? I'm a size 0 in Chico's! ZERO! I'm never leaving this place! I am so fucking Chico's! I buy four pairs of size zero shorts faster than you can say "hot flash."
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| IT'S WHO I AM |
Ten minutes later I was stifling my sobs in the Dillard's dressing room while wearing a skirted floral tankini. I grab my iPhone and ask SIRI for one of those stupid LOSE TEN POUNDS IN FIVE DAYS! articles online. SIRI answers in her cold, automated tone, I FOUND SOMETHING THAT MIGHT HELP YOU, RACHAEL.
It's an article about decapitation. Bitch.
I turn my phone off and remove the detachable, matronly skirt of the tankini. Skirt? I don't need no stinking skirt! Um, wait, yes I do-- because it seems I've got some "bikini-area issues." It's been a long winter, if ya know what I mean. I've got a 'fro down below. My bush is trying to escape out of all sides of this bathing suit bottom, and I don't blame her; it's scary in there. Horrified, I grab my phone again and call the Pretty Kitty salon for an emergency waxendectomy. The receptionist says they're all booked up so I go ahead and text them a pic of my bikini area. Check. Mate. Thirty minutes later, I'm pants-less on a table with my legs spread, froggy-style. I don't know how many bikini waxes you've had, but I've had a few and it's always a very strange experience. Mainly because you find yourself apologizing for your vagina for one reason or another. But it doesn't even matter because these wax technicians, these angels of mercy, seem to really enjoy their jobs. I don't get it; maybe they are sadists? I don't know, but God love 'em for doing it. While they gleefully slather hot wax on your lady parts, they smile and get real chatty, like this is normal; just two gals having lunch or something. And then right in the middle of the friendly banter comes the searing, white-hot pain. "Oh, blah, blah hahaha"
...R-I-I-P-P
Is it worse than childbirth? Well, no... but they could easily offer epidurals and I would sign right up. I don't go in for the full Brazilian; I don't want to look like a 10 year old. I'm a grown ass woman. (Also, I've heard that middle part hurts like a mofo.) I just want a little off the sides, but she keeps ripping away. "Somewhere between Kojak and QuestLove," I caution her. But the girl is on a mission. She gets a little too into her work, and I end up with a Hitler.
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| "Heil Kitler!" |
Look out, world!
