The Norwegian kept me in line in many ways; over sharing amongst them. He outlined frequently what is and is not necessary to share with the class; often scolding me like a toddler just learning to speak. He wondered aloud, and often, at my inability to tuck anything away as secret. I was admonished more than once for sharing family information. Things he considered private I consider conversation. In the beginning I felt stifled. Then I learned to share out of earshot.
If I had a dime for every time the man said, “I can’t believe you said that,” there would be no worries about insurance and the IRS. I’d write a check and know that it is due only to my blabbing that there is money in the bank. Alas, this is not the case. The rewards for a big mouth are few and far between. More often than not, it spells trouble. Like now.
Last night I woke covered in sweat, screaming. Well, not sure if I was screaming. I was making noise for certain. It was the noise that woke me. A pair of sleepy face cats stare wide-eyed in the darkness as I shake the cobwebs from my head. I had a sex dream. With my dead husband. I have encounters with him, but in an ethereal, kind of ghosty way. Never in the real, “Oh my God give me cigarette. Let’s make some eggs I’m famished” kind of way. I am exhausted, breathless and frightening the cats.
The Norwegian would be positively apoplectic about now as he senses my journey. Please, tell me you are not going there? I can hear his pleas. Sorry. The girlfriends will attest I’ve boasted before of the man’s mad skills. Chickens–it would be a good idea to stop reading now. They got their father’s “no sharing” code of honor. Good thing they got fashion, pearls, fine wine and an appreciation of Grey Goose from me. Otherwise, what would be the point?
The man stole my heart, and my body, when I was twenty-one years old. I never, ever looked at another; all due to skills. No lie. And now I am expected to live without; in a forever drought. As you know, girlfriends suggest a motorized friend. Pfft. I know for a fact I couldn’t keep a straight face. And talk about frightening the cats.
Here’s the funny part of my stupor. I wake confused. One of my first thoughts is, did I get waxed? What? Really? I am nervous that I shared mad skills without proper grooming. Follow my twisted logic. Married for twenty seven years, people try new things–never let the skills get rusty, am I right? After all, I am not the lithe beauty he married, smooth and tiny with nary a stretch mark. I am instead old, topographical in my stretch mark activity and wider in the ass department. Perhaps the man needs a distraction.
Again, girlfriends are the culprit. In the eighties, ladies shaved for bikinis that were much larger. As time marched on expectations for appearance in the private area evolved. Everyone is doing it. What? You’re not? What does The Norwegian think? I believe, being a guy, he thinks wow I’m getting laid regularly, yay me. But, as girlfriends are wont to do, they can make a doll question. At my salon, I discuss procedure, looks and results with the Queen of Wax for months. Queen confirms many of my best girls visit and results are always a hit on the home front. She advises a couple of Advil before the first time.
We decide a landing strip is best. She dissuades baldness in older women given that privates, like other body parts, tend not to look so pretty with age. Me, not being a spring chicken and all, a landing strip would be the loveliest of waxing handiwork. Advil taken, I enter the room and remind Queen that I am beyond nervous, Catholic and despite a smart ass mouth, quite conservative. She says that’s okay honey, leave your underwear on. K. I feel better already. She protects my underwear with tissue and pulls it aside. Conversations later reveal that I am, most likely, the first woman on the planet to have bikini waxes with panties protecting what’s left of my modesty. No matter.
Wax is hot. It has to be in order to grasp those hairs and yank them from your body where they grow naturally as God intended. Queen says, Okay darling are you ready? I’m going to pull fast and it will hurt. She yanks swiftly. Tears spurt forth without warning and my mouth, of its own volition, yells, “You bitch.” As my knees raise to my chest, she rubs my back a little and says, “That’s normal. It gets easier.” I want to stop. But what I’m left with now is basically half a mustache. Gotta keep going. Other side rip. And now we trim and make small little grabs and pulls for shape. Thank God I don’t opt for the full monty as I find out later it includes a trip to the netherlands which definitely is not happening. Queen of Wax assures me that the redness will fade and the area will be a little tender. I say, “I hate you,” and hand her a wad of cash. Yes, I paid for torture. Water boarding? Pfft. Note to the CIA–I’ve birthed three ten-pound children and couldn’t handle this. There’s not a man alive who wouldn’t give up state secrets.
The Norwegian comes home late that night; client meetings. I’ve taken a bath and examined my newly sculpted self numerous times trying to gauge his reaction. He’s removing his tie in the closet when I say I have to show you something. “What?” He’s a little cranky from a long day and he hasn’t had dinner yet. He’ll have to wait. I drop my robe. His jaw goes slack and I know I will be visiting the Queen of Wax frequently. Kick start the mad skills ladies. We spend the rest of our married life enjoying the fruits of my labor–in the closet, on the couch, in the back yard, in the car, at his office and in various chairs without arms.
And now I’m left with a hairy body, sweat inducing dreams and frightened cats. Fuck Me.