Sunday, July 20, 2008

Bikini Bloopers

(Who doesn't love Sally Field as Gidget?)

Finally free of all obligations to my family (the boys are spending the week at their grandparents and my geezer of a husband just wants a nap), I quickly select a swimsuit in which to rush to the pool for a few uninterrupted hours of sun and Southern Living magazine.

My bikini line is less than pristine, so I go with a suit that has a skirt. Now at 35, I can still pull off a bikini moderately well, meaning I seldom leave a trail of vomiting onlookers in my wake. I am, in fact, quite fond of this particular suit with its aqua, navy, and white polka-dotted bandeau top with optional tie around the neck – which I use because let’s face it, I’ve had two kids and my husband has yet to agree to my extreme makeover plan.

After a short drive, I sign in at the neighborhood pool with the teenage kid at the front desk, and begin to write my husband’s emergency contact info for unlikely event that I should need medical attention for a cannonball gone wrong. At this point any support I had from the top half of my bikini gave way. I immediately clench my upper arms to my sides like I was crushing a can between my shoulder blades and briskly walk to the bathroom to refasten my swimsuit. As I reach up into the back of my cover up, a large chunk of plastic falls into my hand. This confirms the worst of all possible scenarios, my Wal-Mart suit has given up on me after only two summers and there will be no pool day today.

I walk like a penguin out to the car, muttering something about leaving my towel at home to the kid who just signed me in two minutes ago. On the way to the car, I get a flash of brilliance and realize that all may not be lost after all. I’m in a swimsuit with a skirt for a reason, why not rectify that situation with a quick bikini wax?

In suburban McKinney, Texas there are strip malls as far as the eye can see in every direction. I think the zoning rules must say that in such shopping centers there MUST be a donut store, a dry cleaners and a nail salon. I decide to gamble just once on the flashing neon sign at my favorite pedi place that claims they also do massages, waxing, and microdermabrasion. Upon arrival I am ushered back to the room that I have always thought was the bathroom. There is a small treatment table covered with a fitted sheet. Quite frankly, it looks like an old dentist’s chair in the fully reclined position. The young girl asks me to take off my pants. If you’ll recall I’m in a swimsuit. Awkward.

I offer to come back on Monday, but she thinks we should give it a go anyway. Truthfully at this point, coming back on Monday was just code for “this may be my favorite pedicure salon, but I am never, I repeat never, coming back here again since you’ve seen me nearly naked.” Hot wax. Linen strips rubbed on. Ripping. Stinging. All the bad words I ever heard on the back of the junior high bus rushing to mind. I think the ordeal is over, but then she goes after me with tweezers that feel like they are electrified on my freshly abraded skin. When I hear the words, “Ok, you done,” I nearly hurt myself trying to get my swimsuit back on.

I pay and leave, walking like a cowboy that just got off a week long trail ride, all the while still clinching my swimsuit top on with the sheer force of my will. Next time I think I’ll opt for the nap after all.

2 comments:

Jana said...

Honey you havae more guts than I would ever have! My luck, the waxing techie would have been a former student!

Angie said...

OMG! Just found your blog, this is hysterical! Excuse while I clean the tea off my computer screen!