(Mom, you might want to skip this one. Profanities abound. You’ve been warned.)
I hate the cold. Like, really fucking hate it. I hate it so much that I get angry at it, as if it’s another human being with feelings and shit. On my way out of the office today, I bundled up WITH PURPOSE. I’ll show this Winter who’s boss, I thought. I’m not going to meekly run across the street and shudder under my scarf and coat, hiding from the icy wind. I’m going to walk, calmly, like a fucking adult, and get in my car and drive home. Stupid cold. Stupid winter. I won’t let it get to me.
And so that’s what I did. And I felt all bad-ass about it too.
Even though it had snowed all day, I had an appointment after work (with Helga from the House of Pain, but I’ll get to that) that the chicken-shit me would’ve typically canceled because, “OMG, what about all the SNOW! And WIND! And BLACK ICE! Well no, I don’t know if there’s ice, because it’s BLACK like the ROAD and you can’t SEE IT but OMG DANGER!” But I kept my appointment. Partly out of spite (I’ll be DAMNED if I’ll let winter dictate my plans! I fucking hate winter.) and partly because it was my sixth and final (Hallelujah!) laser hair removal appointment and I was desperate to get it over with.
After the confrontation I had just had with Winter, feeling like I just pwned Winter’s ass, I was feeling pretty confident and so I started to psyche myself up for my date with Helga and her laser of doom. I thought about how she would crank up the laser’s intensity to its maximum setting, ensuring that I would get a taste of that fetid burnt hair smell. (God, I hate that smell.) I thought about that cold, ultrasound jelly crap she smears on my armpits followed by the needle-like stinging of the laser as it burns past my skin, deep down into the hair follicle, singeing it dead. I can take it, I thought. In fact, I deserve it. Bring it on, Helga!
Well Helga brought it. And, you guys? Remember when I told you about my very first treatment? That was fucking CAKE compared to tonight. With each zap of Helga’s laser, I muttered curse words under my breath ala Joe Pesci from Home Alone. Sure, I knew what to expect so the shock of the pain wasn’t there, but this time, I had to ask for ice packs when she was done with me. ICE PACKS.
Now if you’ll recall, I also paid for treatment of the bikini area. Yeah…. there’s no fucking way I was letting her come at my lady bits with her firey laser of doom. So I came up with an excuse. I said, “Oh hey, ya know, I’m good down there. Really. No more hair.” “Are you sure?” she asked. Shit! She knows I’m lying! Lie HARDER!! “Totally sure. It’s the craziest thing. I used to grow hair there but now, it’s like I’ve got mange of the vagina or something. No hair at all! Totally bald! Really! I guess the earlier treatments worked. So, um, yeah, we’re good.”
Alright so I panicked. And Helga isn’t exactly the brightest crayon in the box so my story worked. Either that or she was tired from a long day of lasering other women’s lady bits and figured what the hell, what’s a few more pubes in the world? Thank you for your pity, Helga.
If I had any sense of pride when I walked in that building tonight, it was gone as I lay topless on the table with Helga rubbing an ice-cold roller over each of my armpits. I mean, I know it wasn’t our first time together or anything, but I still would’ve liked to have gotten to know her a little better. I don’t even know her last name! Oh well, we’ll always have the House of Pain, Helga.
Anyway… So after a few minutes of Helga icing up my pits (ah, there’s a phrase that will bring in the Google-search-weirdos) she let me have two ice packs to take home. Now I’m not sure of many things in life, but I’m fairly certain I was one of the only people in the state of Missouri that drove home in 15 degree weather in the middle of January with ice packs under her armpits. I felt so… special.
The angry fight in me was gone. I had gone into nursing-my-wounds mode after the ass-kicking from Helga. All I could think was, “Ah this ice pack feels nice. But this packaging is a little pokey for my tender skin. I need something…lighter.” So when I finally got home, after sending my husband off to buy an emergency bottle of wine, I took off my jacket and stepped outside in my sleeveless shirt, raised my arms, and let the cold wind soothe my burning skin. I just stood there, eyes closed thinking, “Ooh, soooo cold. Sooo soothing. Sooo wonderful.” My guard was down. Just then a little, tiny voice piped up and asked, “So you’re saying you LIKE the cold?” And before I realized what I was saying I replied, “Yes. Like. Cold. Feels. So. Nice.”
And then Winter said, “A-HA! Gotcha. You love me.”
Shit. That tricky bastard.
I fucking hate the cold.
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