WAX ON, WAX OUCH.

"WELP!" I heard myself blurt out. "THAT'S THE CLOSEST I'VE EVER BEEN TO A COMPLETE STRANGER AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME!"


Instantly, I regretted this remark. Not only did it make me sound like a half-bred lecherous old hick (heeehawwww), but, damnit, it stung when I realized the walls to my room didn't reach the ceiling. I took a moment to get my 'religious' on and prayed to the sky guy that no one in the tiny adjoining reception area of Max Wax (NYC's all-waxing salon) had heard this horridly awkward exchange.  A highly-arched eyebrow and thin snarl belonging to one malnourished, Hermes-purse-toting Upper West Side socialite met me on my way to pay. Clearly, my indiscretion was very audible. Fuck. Could the whole deforestation be heard from out here?

Jesus, Hayzeus. ಠ_ಠ Where were you on this one?

My waxing technician* dipped her head out of the room I'd just come from and called on the next person. Bitch-with-the-bag's face dropped and she reluctantly rose from her perch to follow the technician back into the scene of my "crime."


Ah, there you are, J-money.


While paying, I marveled over how anyone was able to make it through a waxing session. The entire time my leg hair was being abruptly uprooted from its follicles, a silent scream was swelling in my throat, just on the brink of escaping. Rather than make a spectacle of myself, which I would do later anyway, I focused on creating this list...

10 THINGS TO THINK ABOUT DURING YOUR PAINFUL CHEWBACCA-TO-HOWIE-MANDEL TRANSFORMATION:

1. MOJO MAGIC

Pretend you're a giant voodoo doll and each strip of wax is bringing some small amount of discomfort to your favorite FOX News personality. Rip. Take THAT Glenn Beck. You won't need Vicks VapoRub under your eyes for THIS one. Rip. Crybaby. Rip. Ahhh. Rip. I'll show you 'fair and balanced!' Rip. I am a fucking real American heroooo. RIP.

2. MAKE GEORGE BAILEY PROUD.

Imagine that for each patch of hair being savagely uprooted from your groinal area, an angel gets its wings. Rip. You like that pair, angel? Not big enough for you? Rip. There. That pair has GOT to be bigger. Rip. What do you mean you don't want terradactyl wings? Rip. Damnit, for claiming to be a pure and holy diety, you're sure being a picky twat. Rip. Agh, now I'm bleeding, imp! Thanks a lot, you unappreciative dick.

3. APOLOGIES TO THE LATE ALEXANDER MCQUEEN

Every time the waxer rips, picture these shoes:

http://defiantfashion.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/alexander-mcqueen-shoes-2.jpg.

Now, imagine the people stupid enough to wear these horse hoove monstrosities face-planting on the ground multiple times. Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip.

4. SUPERWHO? I AM...THE HAIRLESS WONDER.

When the pain registers above a 5 on this scale...

...pretend you are a superhero who grows more powerful when someone inflicts pain on you.

Rip. Brace yourselves, jelly jars. Prepare to be de-capped.

Rip. Wow. Watch me curl 400 lbs.

Rip. Hooray. I can stop a train with my pinky.

Rip. KELLY CLARKSON.

Rip. I'll have two Alaskan pine trees and a side of flowing lava, please.

Rip. Orbit shmorbit. C'mon earth, time for a staycation. We're just visiting the next star over, not leaving the galaxy. Chill.

(Warning: self-inflicted pain will not work in this superhero equation, so ripping one's own legs off will NOT, I repeat: will NOT enable you to harness dark matter. Sorry.)

5. COLLECTIVE SPITE

Imagine traveling back in time to deliver a giant smack, on behalf of all present-day women, to whichever marketing douchebags decided body hair was "uncomely."

6. DOIN' IT FOR THE LOVE OF RAY J

Ponder the meaning of life in the context of E! or VH1 channel programming. Marvel at how good you feel about yourself in comparison.

7. YOU NEED TO MAKE A CHOICE, MMMKAY?...BETWEEN ELASTIC...OR SOCK SUSPENDERS.

Picture Dr. Phil naked. Gah! You can't unpicture it, can you? Neither can I. Now, whenever you begin to experience pain, you'll instantly think of black dress socks and bushy moustaches. You're welcome?

8.  SAVING THE DOLPHINS ONE BIKINI LINE AT A TIME

Pass the painful time by figuring out the least awkward way possible to ask the waxing technician for your body hair back. You'll want to ship it to BP to help sop up that teeny little Gulf of Mexico gaffe. teehee Ooooops! ಠ_ಠ Be sure to mail it directly to the home of Tony Hayward.

9. LALALA JUST MINDING MY OWN BUSI--GAAAH! WHAT ARE YOU?

Play this on loop in your head:

http://www.gifbin.com/983202

10. ROYAL PAIN

Think of the Queen.

I found these strategies helpful for me, but somehow all of that latent hurt-y energy built up in my system and exited in the form of terribly embarrassing commentary, with gems like,

"Aargh--err--wow! That's not as bad as I thought it would be! Har har har! ow."

And, "So...do you enjoy your job?"

And, "I dunno...do a lot of your clients go for the pooper?"

It was my lame attempt to act casual and be funny while a sweet, quiet Swedish woman I'd never met before waxed hair I'd never seen before.

Luckily, Swedish lady was steadfastly polite and professional and kept the situation comfortable enough that, with exception of the socialite, I was only vaguely aware of how crass I sounded... that is, until I caught the receptionist smirking at my back in a reflection on the door as I walked out. Damn.

Well, I might not be able to sand wood with my leg stubble anymore, but I can certainly strip the stain off of any deck with this sudden diarrhea of the mouth affliction I have.

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*Is it funny to anyone else that a waxer is called a technician? I mean, it's not like they're building computer motherboards or fixing spaceships. Don't get me wrong, I know there is some serious skill involved in waxing. I just think a more appropriate term would be "waxing warriors" or "saints of taints" or "follicle finessers."

Listen, not everything "flies" when you fly.

There's something about seeing a 90 lb. 90-year-old elbow her way to the front of the plane (because God-forbid anyone reach the empty baggage claim area before she does) that both alarms and amuses me. It's so raw, so wild, so impolite, so...STUPID! I see it in the young, the old, the big and the small: manners and logic fly out the window when people fly anywhere.

To all those people with seating assignments in zone 6 who insist on crowding around the front of the boarding line like rabid wolves, waiting for your zone to be called...SIT DOWN. Your being at the front of the line is not going to make the plane take off more quickly. In fact, it confuses the people in zones 1-5, who stand behind you, thinking that you're in their zone and that they need to wait behind you. Congratulations, geniuses, you single-handedly just slowed down the boarding of the entire damn plane and now we're 15 minutes behind-schedule because of that.

Look at the 15-seat-deep stomach-to-back-tight line for the bathroom at any given moment in the flight...Listen to the clamor of clicking as everyone scrambles to unfasten their seat belts the very microsecond the captain turns off the "fasten seat belt" sign when the flight is over...all so they can squeeze themselves into an over-crowded aisle where they push and shove to grab their bags. Humans have such an intense desire to be first and such a deep distaste for being cooped up that they will blindly sabotage their own efforts in their misguided attempts to obtain their freedom. First.

Sit your ass down in your seat and wait for those first 30 aisles ahead of you to empty out instead of constipating the aisle any further with your farty-plane-seat stench and your awkward carry-on that, let's face it, is so damn big, it should have been checked.

Oh, and if you're one of those lovely people with a window seat who insists on standing up next to me at the end of the flight to let me know you want out, DON'T WORRY. I'll let you brush past me the very moment the aisle beside me clears enough for you to do so. It is not okay to wedge yourself between me and the seat in front of me and breathe down my neck. There's no room in the aisle for me, so why do you think there's going to be any room for your double-wide?

Life is much less stressful when you just let go and let people go before you. How many minutes do you really gain in your frantic rush? 1? 2? Is that worth the stress? If you truly can't wait, if you have a flight to catch, exercise some manners. A little "pardon," "please," and "thank you" go a long way and have the curious effect of clearing a pathway instantaneously.