Edge Of Twenty

My recent lack of posts stems from the fact that I'm currently going through a vapid yet disruptive existential crisis. Less than a month shy of turning 20, I've found myself questioning my current lifestyle habits and wondering what effect my present behavior will have on my more-and-more-rapidly-encroaching post graduate life. I'll be the first to admit it: I go out too often and while I'm out I go too extreme. There's no denying it, and while my GPA is good, there's also no denying that it would be better if I acted more responsibly. At my large university, I've been able to make it feel much smaller by knowing a vast majority of the non-asian male population, due to them either being next on my Hit List or already on my I've-Hit-It List. I only go to the gym on days when I'm not hungover, which is approximately twice a week,  and my diet consists of coffee with nonfat milk until 3 pm, and roughly one thousand calories worth of pizza after 3 am. While it looks like I've hired Lindsay Lohan's old life coach, the truth is I'm the happiest now that I've ever been in my entire life. The only thought causing me stress is that maybe it's time I should start thinking responsibly.
Every morning, I sit with my coffee and have a hungover meditation. I know I could fix all of these seemingly wrong things about my life easily, and I know exactly how I'd do it. Instead of starving myself all day so that I can fit into whichever piece of spandex nightwear I'm planning on wearing and then drunk munching on pizza before falling asleep with my shoes still on, I could eat dinner at a reasonable hour then retire to my room to stay on top of my homework before the weekend comes. Then, if I limited myself to only going out on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, and also enforced a rule where I went to the gym either the day I went out in order to tighten up for my going out-fit, and also on days after I've gone out in order to sweat out my hangover, I'd end up working out four days a week. Finally, instead of only answering texts from boys who only talk to me after 11 pm, I could take one of the nice boys I know up on their offer to hang out soberly. From there, we could enter a bond beyond the party scene, and both of us could just cut the whole hard-to-get bullshit and have a functional relationship that doesn't
involve playing mind games.
But if this is the kind of life that I'll be forced to live once I graduate, what's the sense in living it now? Missing class because of a hangover is more forgivable than missing work because of one. And getting your favorite pair of Hanky Panky's back from the frat boy who's best friend dates your Big is way easier than getting them back from some guy you met at a bar downtown. It's healthy for me to get these unhealthy habits out of my system now while they're still forgivable. My existential crisis of exiting my teenage years started with the realization that I should grow more responsible to secure my future, but that led me to the opposite realization that the responsible thing to do now is act irresponsibly before a multitude of adult responsibilities are thrust upon me. On the edge of twenty, I realized that I might just be at an age where I need to do things that are bad for me. I need to stay out past 3 am the night before I have a midterm. I need to enjoy what is rapidly becoming the not-so-occasional cigarette while I'm drunk. I need to fall asleep in my makeup and contacts because I've fallen asleep in a bed other than my own. And I need to fuel myself with coffee and diet coke in order to rapidly get homework done so that I still have time in the day to tan without sunscreen. At this point in my life, it seems that the most unhealthy lifestyle I could lead would be one full of organic foods, sleeping, and furthermore sleeping next to someone with whom I have a functional relationship.

Wax On, Wax Off

There comes a time in every young woman’s life when she needs to find the courage within herself to rip off the bandaid. And by bandaid, I mean wax strip. Like a below-the-belt Bat Mitzvah, your first bikini wax signifies the transition from girl to woman. And I figured what better time to take the plunge than before my college spring break trip. If my body could endure a 72 hour binge drinking bender in the beating sun, then it could also endure a little wax and a lot of body hair. So I booked the appointment for a wax at my local salon to make a quick pit stop to Brazil before my trip to Havasu.

The bravery coursed through my veins after I hung up with the receptionist, and I began associating my bikini wax with all the crazy times I was going to have on my trip. But my bravery fleeted me only hours later as I walked on wobbly legs to my car; it was the same nervous feeling I’d had before I got my belly button pieced, only this time the piercing pain would be between my thighs. I realized not only would this potentially be the most painful experience of my 19 years of living, but also the first time I’d be exposing my vataylor to a woman who had gone to beauty school instead of medical school. But this was something I had to do; razor burn and stubble were two things I would not be packing for my spring break trip.
I wobbled into the salon with wide eyes and a gaunt expression. The receptionist at the main desk directed me downstairs to the spa level where I sat my shaky nerves on a luxurious couch. Moments later, my waxer came out to greet me, then led me into a private room for me to take my pants off in. Perhaps I would have felt more at home if the waxing tables had been lofted like frat house bunk beds.
“I’m a little nervous,” I underexaggerated, “this is my first bikini wax.”
“Don’t be nervous! It’s a little painful, but when it’s done you’re gonna be like ‘why haven’t I been getting these all along?’” She was nice, I knew my chaste hair follicles were in good hands. “With a Brazilian wax, it’s normally best to take off everything.”
So with a deep breath, I unbuttoned my pants and pulled off both shorts and boyshorts. I felt like I was losing my virginity. I laid down on the table as the waxer snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then prepped her stick with wax. She spread the wax onto my skin and placed on the first strip. Paralyzed with fear, I laid there on the bed completely stiff.
“Take a deep breath,” she instructed.
I took as deep of a breath as my mildly abused lungs could hold, and on my exhale I felt the first rip. The pain was sharp but brief. In a bizarre way, it felt good. I could feel my bikini line being cleansed, and that was a cause worth suffering for. She pulled off strip after strip until I eventually became numb to the pain. My body was in a deep state of meditation as I felt my hair follicles being detoxed.
“Alright, all done.”
Resuscitated from my relaxation, I sprung up from the table and redressed.
“Thank you so much!” I told her as a strange adrenaline pumped through my veins.
I paid then walked to my car with a brand new pep in my step. I felt reborn, and was officially a waxing convert. And most of all, I was ready to go on spring break as a new woman.