Thursday, June 10, 2010

Wax On, Wax Off...


One thing scarier than Paris Hilton's performance in the remake of House of Wax is a crotch full of it--wax, that is; not Paris Hilton--which I discovered first hand yesterday in Cambridge.

For years I have heard, read about and watched (remember that Sex and the City episode when the girls go to LA?) the joys and sorrows of waxing various parts of one's body. I even summoned the courage to have my eyebrows done by an esthetician friend of mine two years ago. It hardly counted, given my seven errant hairs. I struggle with certain body image issues, but a unibrow is not one of them. Besides, I pluck like a maniac!


Amazed that I had made it to thirty without having experienced a bikini wax, I thought that the time had come to put on my proverbial big girl panties by taking off the literal ones.

Before making the final decision, I consulted girlfriends who wax, some of whom have blogged about their own Brazilians, and read an array of online literature. Not one to pass judgment merely on hearsay, I insist on personal experience whenever possible to draw conclusions on my own.

Being a Myers-Briggs INFJ personality type, I carefully ponder every option before making well-informed decisions. Menu options can overwhelm me, so imagine the thought that went into ripping out hair on my hooha with hot wax! The entire process seems like a counterintuitive assault on the body.



It is. But, so are corsets, foot binding, Botox, 6-inch stilettos, breast (and any other bodily) implants and a plethora of other lotions, potions, contraptions, processes, practices and self-imposed torture devised in the name of fashion and beauty.

This wouldn't be the first time I subjected myself to pain for such superficial purposes. Besides, my Whiskers-like curiosity, pseudo-masochism and sense of adventure prevailed over reason and feminist sensibility.

The timing of my final decision coincided with bikini season and my 31st birthday. What a handy birthday gift idea! At least I wouldn't have to justify spending $50 of my own money on excruciating body hair removal.

Bikini waxes require hair a minimum one-quarter inch in length, which forced me to spend an itchy three-week phase of growing mine out. With my furious, clandestine scratching, I think that strangers suspected I had crabs.

The night before my appointment, apprehension set in and I nearly shaved it all in one fell swoop. After a 12-second internal gemini chat, the twins made peace and I opted to compromise with a bikini wax; just the outskirts would be affected.


Or not.

Allow me to break down the process.
  • I arrived five minutes early for a 10:30am appointment.
  • Entered the sterile waxing room looking like a deer in the headlights.
  • Met Roberta, my friendly esthetician.
  • Stripped everything from the waist down per Roberta's instruction.
  • Laid back on the gyno-like massage therapy table covered in wax paper (intentional?).
  • Let the fun begin...
Roberta exuded a warm professionalism and efficiently ripped my bikini line out by the roots. With a smile to boot.

"Ok, so that's it?" I asked. "You're fast!"

"No, there is more." she replied. "I'm from Brazil. You're getting a BRAZILIAN."

It was neither a question nor a request.

"Did you take Advil?" she asked.

In jest, I asked my boyfriend if I could pop a couple of his Vicodin before my appointment. Little did I expect to actually need them.

"Uh, no. Do you have any bourbon in the house, though? I could use a shot of...something."

Roberta laughed at my feeble funny as she ripped out round two of the runny, green wax.


"Almost finished," she reassured me.

We chatted about Brazil and Boston, our respective families and travels.

Each time she pulled out the wax, I flinched and once I even squealed. However, I took pride in my tolerance, given my boyfriend's mantra: "honey, you know what a low threshold for pain you have."

Determined to prove him wrong, I felt like William Wallace in Braveheart, covertly spitting out the anesthesia before being disemboweled.

After every strip, Roberta chanted, "almost finished."

"You said that fifteen minutes ago!" I whimpered.

When I could see not a trace of stubble, Roberta paused. I began to sit up, sweating profusely by now.

"Now, turn over."

"Wha-?? There is nothing back there you need to wax. TRUST ME." I assured her.

"Almost finished."

"Yah, yah. Listen, Roberta, I will pay you extra NOT to go there, OK?"

The effort was futile. Roberta covered every nook, cranny and crack.

"You don't have much there," she claimed. "Some women, they have lots of hair. Many don't like this part. They feel nervous."

Hmmm, I can't imagine why.

I surrendered and just pretended that I was visiting my gynecologist...and proctologist.

Expecting another thirty minutes of Brazilian torture, Roberta halted.

"Ok, done."

"NOW I'm done? But I'm finally getting used to this!"


Sort of.

I returned my panties to their proper home, checked to clock to learn that the process took about 45 minutes, and allowed Roberta to escort me to the front desk, where I tipped her generously.

"So, when you want to make next appointment?" she asked with a mischievous smile.

Monday, May 24, 2010

The Joys of Neti Pot


*Post-publication note (10 June 2010):*
Upon editing this post, my boyfriend suggested that I refer the Neti pot interchangeably as "his" and "mine." Indeed, it does belong to him, but I use it intermittently. I have not yet committed to obtaining one of my own. Besides, "it's always more fun to share with everyone..."


This is one of the gifts I gave my boyfriend for his birthday. If you're thinking that it is:
  • a genie's lamp, acquired only with Aladdin's assistance
  • a handle-free teapot, short and stout
  • a fun new gadget for your next passion party
  • the best imaginable present
then you would be incorrect, but close.

It is, in fact, a handmade neti pot.

You are either reading this now with a quick nod and knowing smile, or with glazed eyes and a vague recollection that it may have been something you smoked in your dorm room...which looked nothing like that bizarre contraption in the picture.

For the neti pot neophytes, I will explain in greater detail. For you veterans, feel free to follow along at your leisure and add any a propos comments. I am hardly an expert; rather, a former skeptic who has recently warmed up to the notion that nasal passages could somehow benefit from irrigation practices, which is what the neti pot is designed to do.


Variations of neti pots have been circulating for centuries, originally used by yoga practitioners in India and the Far East to aid in breathing exercises. The popularity exploded in North America in the 1970s and is used to ease and help prevent sinus problems and infections.

I was first introduced to neti pot via infomercial during my freshman year of college. The demonstration fascinated, frightened and disgusted me, in equal parts. After watching the host shove a spout up one nostril, allowing salt water to flow up and out the other nostril, I put down my half-eaten slice of pizza and vowed never to subject myself to such home remedy torture.

After losing my appetite that night, I have since eaten my words. Now, more than a decade later, I use my neti pot daily. Mine is small and compact, easy on the eyes and true to its yogic origin. The aum design adds a nice, crunchy touch; and it matches my tramp stamp tattoo to boot.










My boyfriend's sinus problems motivated me to shell out twenty dollars for a neti pot, after years of avoidance. The birthday guinea pig volunteered to try it first. Every morning for three days I watched in awe. On day four, I tried the process myself, with shocking success.

I had intended to post photos accompanying the step by step process, but my vanity prevented me from doing so. While interesting, neti potting (an expression which I have integrated into my vocabulary, well aware that it may not qualify as a verb) is hardly a flattering activity. In lieu of my own nostrils, I have perused my internet options for other, existent blow by blow visuals. I discovered a helpful video proffered by the Himalayan Institute.

In a nutshell, for those of you who may still be confused:
  • Mix 1/4 teaspoon of non-iodized salt (or the special neti pot salt, if you prefer to spend more money on the fancy stuff that has essentially the same effect) with 8 ounces of warm water (it should be the same temperature and saltiness of your tears)
  • Fill up the neti pot (each one is sized somewhat differently) with the water mixture
  • Tilt your head at a 45-degree angle (away from the neti pot and preferable over a sink) and place the spout snugly into one nostril
  • Open your mouth, bend forward and tilt your head further until the water fills one nostril
  • It will naturally drain out the other nostril
  • Continue the process until the neti pot is empty
  • Gently push air through both nostrils and allow the water to drip out
  • REPEAT the process with the other nostril
Voila! You have just completed a process I endearingly refer to as 'hippie waterboarding.'

It may feel counterintuitive and somewhat masochistic. I think it is. However, it has also helped assuage the symptoms of my springtime allergies, warded off my boyfriend's sinus infections and gives a great head buzz first thing in the morning. I hardly need coffee or Benadryl anymore; neti pot offers an apt alternative to both.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Everything is Broken

Broken bottles broken plates
Broken switches broken gates
Broken dishes broken parts
Streets are filled with broken hearts
Broken words never meant to be spoken
Everything is broken.

Seem like every time you stop and turn around
Something else just hit the ground
Broken cutters broken saws
Broken buckles broken laws
Broken bodies broken bones
Broken voices on broken phones
Take a deep breath feel like you're chokin'
Everything is broken.



The whirlwind of events over the past couple of months has left me in the wake of broken, lost and misplaced pieces of my life; literal and figurative pieces of physical, emotional and mental destruction. To dispel any doubt, I'm leaving no stone unturned; hence, the truncated Dylan lyrics.

In the midst of crisis lies the seed for opportunity. Or something. Isn't that what the ancient Chinese proverb teaches us, anyway?

That said, I have been granted no dearth of opportunity to put on my big girl panties and deal with it lately. In this case, 'it' encapsulates several components, which include, but are not limited to:
  • A broken digital camera
  • Lifeless laptop
  • Random broken household items, adding up to a rather costly TO DO list
  • The dissolution of my relationship with my live-in boyfriend
  • Extensive car damage, resulting from a fire on my turbo (which sounds naughty, but I assure you, it's been more frustrating, time-consuming and costly than anything else...)
Yes, I know that millions of Haitians could trump my Saab story with their own tales of lost loved ones, destroyed homes, demolished businesses, hunger, dehydration, lack of basic necessities...


I also know that there was a BUT point to make here, but now I've lost track of what that was.

Oh yah...and the devastating earthquake of Port-au-Prince compounded my January melancholia as I read headlines in a constant state of horror.

But, I mean, this IS about me, so let's get back on track, shall we?

My mother attributes this recent winter 'one step forward, 5 steps back' phenomenon to the stars. No, not Hollywood; the OTHER ones. You know, the zodiac. Apparently, mercury has been retrograde for some time now, affecting most saliently the signs ruled by that slippery planet.

There can't be THAT many Virgos and Geminis in Haiti...

Whatever the reason--astrology, karma, negative thoughts, mischievous deities, fate, destiny, free will, old fashioned back luck, none or all of the above, or something completely different--brokenness abounds.

The first two dictionary definitions of "broken" include:
  • Forcibly separated into two or more pieces; fractured.
  • Sundered by divorce, separation, or desertion.
Check.
Check.
CHECK.CHECK.CHECK!

But, pieces can be Gorilla Glued back together; fractures heal; new relationships arise from the ashes of divorce; separation allows for introspection; desertion....well, I'm not sure what good comes from desertion, but it must proffer some opportunity for growth. I'll think of something.

Things break; and they usually break OPEN. Even if it feels like Pandora's Box, the process invokes change, facilitating personal development and all of that encouraging therapy jargon.

Right?

So, why does the process feel so TERRIBLE?

We no doubt do it to ourselves.

My only advice is to JUST STOP. Stop fighting the current and enjoy the ride downstream.

Cameras, laptops, businesses, boyfriends, even engines...can all be fixed, replaced or released.

Or all of the above.