I’m a waxer.
No, I don’t work at a car wash. No, I’m not a janitor. No, I'm not the Karate Kid; nor am I an esthetician. (Look it up.)
I mean, I am the one getting waxed. And we ain’t talking about my face people. I do not have facial hair, but I do have many, many bikinis. I am in a bikini pretty much every day of my life. (And just in case you are new to this blog, I am not a Sports Illustrated model, I happen to live in Hawaii and be the proud renter of this pool.)
I also enjoy swimming in the much, much larger pool off in the distance as well.
So, I get waxed, you know, down there. It’s just a little piece of mind knowing that I don’t have to worry that I am not unintentionally announcing to everyone that yes, I have indeed reached puberty.
Don’t worry, this is not going to be an instant replay about my last waxing appointment in which my lovely (really, truly, she’s pretty great) waxer yanked out my curly-Q’s while I thought in my head “Owshitmotherfuckerdonkeyballswhore!!!!” Or how we talk about her twins and their cute little antics all the while my hoo-hoo is in plain view. I’m not even going to mention how fucking awkward it is when she waxes er,…….me bum.
My point is……….........