By KEL TITCHMARSH
I just sent this text to my flatmate:
I got brave.
My beloved and I are celebrating our second anniversary next week.
My sister told me that it was the worst pain she had ever experienced.
Be it a sense of occasion or a sense of defiance, I’m not sure. All I know is that I’m sitting here, without my pants, rocking gently and wishing I could turn back time.
It started easily enough. I wanted to do some landscaping in the lady garden. That pressure that comes with a relationship, you know? If you’ve been a long-time reader of this blog, you know that those words generally signal drama. In fact, just recently I wrote about how we shouldn’t be afraid to leave our fannies alone.
But did I listen?
Picture it. I’m home alone. My beloved is working an afternoon/evening shift. I want to surprise her when she gets home.
I think she is going to be surprised.
The trimmer had flat batteries.
I had no special cream.
Even I’m not silly enough to let a blade near my vag.
One solution, which I should have known really wasn’t a solution.
Yes, you are right to have alarm bells pealing in your head. I didn’t. I went for it.
Cut myself a couple of strips. Peeled them apart.
Put one in place, and being aware that if I didn’t apply the second I would probably drop it, I slapped on the second strip.
Grabbed the first strip.
Tightened what I could.
The yanking of wax felt as though I was removing hair as long as the hair from my head. I’m sure I heard my uterus detach, so intense was the pain.
Now, I never knew that when in this kind of situation, the automatic words from my mouth would be “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!” I really thought this was more of a “FUCK!” or “SHIT!” situation. Apparently stress brings out my religious side.