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.

The Not So Red Scare

It all started with excruciating stomach pains this past monday in the middle of the night. In too much discomfort to sleep, and my mind now racing wishing I could call downstairs to my mom to get me ginger ale and saltines, I went online to schedule the earliest appointment available for the next morning at the school doctor. Seven hours of the worst, most fragmented sleep later, I woke up with my stomach still hurting, but help would be on the way soon. Hunched over, I rolled out of bed, pulled on sweatpants, and hobbled down to the student health center. After a fantastic weekend, it only seemed fair that my week should start off terribly. I thought I'd made amends for the fun I'd had Saturday night with my Sunday morning hangover, but apparently the party gods still wanted me to repent for my drinking. However, it was worth it. Even though I felt as if I was going to shit out my stomach, I was still blissfully happy about how much fun I'd had at the party Saturday, not to mention how much fun I'd had after the party with the hottie from my Linguistics discussion.
After a Trail of Tears-esque walk, I was finally at the doctor. I checked in for my appointment and went to sit in the waiting area. The waiting rooms in doctors offices are my absolute favorite place to people watch. There were plenty of people occupying the seats around me that looked as if they were at death's door, but those weren't the people I was interested in. It's the ones who appear to have nothing wrong with them; those are the ones that have the most interesting reason for being there. They have STD written all over them.
I was in the middle of deciding whether the blonde girl across from me looked more like a "herpes" or a "chlamydia" when I was called over by a nurse. She brought me into a room, took my height and weight (ugh), then said the doctor would come see me shortly.
As I waited for the doctor, I took out my phone to text my mom. I'd told her I was having stomach pains last night, and ever since then I could practically feel her having a panic attack, even from 2,000 miles away. I reassured her with a text, "at the doctor's now! your little girl is going to be just fine!" Moments later she replied with "wish I could be there with you! love you baby!"
Just then, the doctor opened the door and gave me what I assume was a smile.
"Alright now, what seems to be the problem?" She took a seat and pulled out a form covered clipboard.
"Well, last night I couldn't sleep because I was having really intense stomach cramps, and now they've carried over to this morning."
She went on to ask all the usual questions: "Are you allergic to any medications?" "Are you currently taking any medications?" "Any history of heart disease/diabetes/high blood pressure in your family?" "When was the date of your last period?"
The last one made me stop and think. I was silent for about five seconds as I flipped back through my mental calendar. Finally, I broke the silence, "End of August."
The doctor paused. Never looking up from her clipboard, she said "Well, that's quite a while."
She was right. It was November. Anyone who's graduated from kindergarten could've told me that it's been over a month since August.
"When was the last time you had sex?" Her eyes still on the clipboard.
Oh, you've got this one, you're fine, I told myself, confident that my last date of intercourse was uncontroversial. "Like, sex-sex?"
"Either vaginal or oral."
Oh. "Saturday."
"And how long have you been with that partner?"
Is that actually on the fucking form? Who wrote these, my mother?? "Uhh," well this was uncomfortable, "not really at all..."
"Do you drink?"
Fucking duh. "Yes."
"Do you smoke?"
Yes. "Not regularly."
"How often do you drink?"
"Umm, like, twice a week," I lied.
"And how many drinks do you drink in a night?"
"Four or five-ish." Another lie.
"Do you ever black out?"
"Not regularly."I pretended to itch my nose but was really checking to see if it was growing from lying so much.
Still focused on the form she said, "The concern doctors have about blacking out is that you'll partake in sexual activity and not be able to remember whether it happened and whether or not you practiced safe sex."
I gulped heavily.
She scribbled down some things on her clipboard and I could tell my medical forms were turning into a burn book. Diagnosis: grotsky little biotch.
At last she looked up from the clipboard. "Do you use protection?"
"Yes," I said with a look in my eyes that cried please don't call my mom.
"Have you taken a pregnancy test since your last missed period?"
"No, but I mean, I'm not. Like, I'm definitely not."I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince, her or myself. As if the nurse hadn't made me feel bad enough when she took my weight, the doctor made me feel like a deplorable whore. Going to the doctor was supposed to fix whatever was bothering you, but this appointment had made me feel even worse.
"Okay, well I'm going to have you take one just to be safe. As for your stomach pains, I've written you a prescription for a low dosage painkiller. If your symptoms persist after a couple of days, come back for a follow-up visit." She handed me a little plastic bag with a small container and a set of directions in it. "As for the test, I'll email you the results within 24 hours."
I grabbed the bag in a lightheaded daze. "Thank you," and thank you for attaching a timebomb to my new pregnancy paranoia.
The week earlier, I'd had midterms that I'd hardly studied for and guessed on practically every multiple choice question, but this test I felt least confident after taking. I gave my test answers to the nurse, and walked back to my dorm in a stressed out, tense trance.
It was impossible to do anything. I couldn't watch TV because every show and commercial coincidentally had a baby or toddler in it, I couldn't do any homework because when I sat at my computer all I could do was refresh my email, and I couldn't sleep because my mind was racing too fast to settle into an REM cycle. So I laid in my bed with the lights off and blinds shut, and just let my mind race. I did this for so many hours that when I finally got up from my bed it was dark outside. I sleepwalked over to my computer and checked my email. I was in a haze until I realized I had a message in my inbox. With that my mind jolted awake and my pulse began pounding. My hand was shaking so badly that it took me several tries to fix the mouse on the message to click it open. Finally, my motor skills allowed me to read the message. I thought my heart was going to jump out of my throat.
My eyes scanned over the screen until I found the word "negative." After that, I reread the message at least ten times before it finally resonated with me you're fine, and furthermore you don't have to call mom with some very bad news.
"YES!!!" I jumped feet into the air when midjump I realized my stomach was still in excruciating pain. Consequently, instead of landing the jump, I fell to the floor, but still kept screaming in joy. Within the span of 10 hours, I'd gone from having nothing more than serious stomach pains, to being possibly pregnant, to being definitely not pregnant with serious stomach pains and possibly a broken ankle. As much as I bitch about my period when I have it, on that day I learned that having it is better than not having it at all.