I like to watch this TV show, “I Shouldn’t Be Alive.”
Do you remember those Choose Your Own Adventure books, where the reader had to make a choice at the end of a chapter? Like, “If you follow the troll into the angry dragon’s mouth of doom, turn to page 73. If you marry the princess and ride your pet unicorn into the land of rainbows, turn to page 94.” And you always had to wonder, what kind of dumbass follows the evil troll? Huh? Who would possibly do that?
The people on “I Shouldn’t Be Alive,” that’s who.
It’s the show where people make not just one bad decision, but a whole series of them. Go hiking into the Grand Canyon? In July? With your grandfather? Who has one amputated leg? And bring no supplies? Except for a can of Diet Coke? AWESOME. Let’s do that.
That’s why I sometimes refer to the show by its alternate title, “No, You Really Shouldn’t Be Alive. You Should Just Go Away and Leave More Food and Water on This Planet For the Rest of Us.”
And yet, this weekend, as I made one incredibly poor decision after another, I could have taken a starring role on the show.
Bad decision #1. Purchase an at-home waxing kit. I realize you might be saying, “But Maggie. There is a reason that salons hire licensed professionals to do this kind of work.” And I say nonsense! It’s just pulling hair out by the root. With boiling-hot wax. Anyone can do this!
Bad decision #2. Directions? Who has time to read directions? I live in a fast-paced modern world.
Bad decision #3. Oh, was I supposed to do something with that bottle of pre-waxing oil? The one that prevents the wax from adhering permanently to your skin? Whatever.
Bad decision #4. Instead of doing a sample, I should probably just put all the wax on at once. That way if it really hurts, I won’t chicken out. I’ll be fully committed.
And fully committed I was.
I attempted to pull off the hardened wax, but it had already climbed down into my pores and formed a union with my skin. With every patch of wax ripped away, a chunk of my epidermis went with it.
I have to be honest. I have never felt such pain in my life. And that’s coming from someone who donated her bone marrow. Like, doctors shoved knitting needles in my pelvis and sucked out a liter of the junk that is INSIDE MY BONES — and that procedure was far more relaxing and comfortable than this at-home wax.
It was a frustratingly slow process that went like this: Claw at a tiny piece of wax. Bleed. Cry. Tremble. Will myself to not faint.
The more I shook, the more I began to sweat. And the more I sweat, the more the wax melted against my skin. And with melted wax, it was like performing a Brazilian with saltwater taffy.
I weighed my options. The hospital was less than a block away. I could throw on a robe and walk there. But then I would always be the girl who went to the ER with a wad of wax on her vagina. Another option was to simply walk around with a wad of wax on my vagina. Forever.
I called a very close friend and blurted out, “I’m having a waxing emergency.” I described the problem.
“Just put a wick in it,” she said.
That girl is no longer my friend.
Finally, using a very complicated combination of tweezers, scissors, cotton balls, ice cubes, nail polish remover and Goo Gone, I rid myself of the wax. And most everything else. In the end, I looked like a skinned baby seal and I am no longer able to wear pants.
I know, I know. I shouldn’t have tried this at home. I shouldn’t have ignored the directions. And I really, really shouldn’t be alive.