|YEAH! YOU WORK THOSE WAXED PITS, GIRL!|
It is RIGHT ON, people! I wish I could compose a poem right now about how magnificent my pits are. Some of you may recall how I made my second attempt ever at waxing the little dickens before I went away to Florida (if not, you can read about that HERE). The first attempt (years ago) was a disaster, but like I said, you can read about that HERE.
The second attempt was much more successful, but so mother-trucking painful, I should have had a leather strap to bite on while I RIPPITY RIPPED THOSE HARS off. No, HARS is not a typo. That's what you have to call them when they're so, so ugly, and armpit HARS are not to be confused with that stuff on top of your head, that you work hard to turn into a sexy, smooth, silky, smellin'-good dome of perfection, instead of the bird's nest it actually wants to be.
So, after many hair-free, glorious smooth-pit days, when the hars finally did start to grow back, I decided THAT'S IT--I'm NOT returning to my MAN-PIT days. No. I had an image stuck in my brain of all the Hollywood bombshells of bygone days, with an arm behind their head, and the most beatific underarm shining white, dry and smooth--the likes of which only an ANGEL would have. And that armpit never, ever, ever had ANY sign of five o'clock shadow. Or razer burn. NO, it looked like hair had never ever even grown there in the first place.
And damn it, I wanted that!
Of course, the best way to have a really successful waxing session is to grow that hair out good and long first. THAT'S WHEN THE FUN BEGINS! I won a pit hair competition with
So, it was Friday night, and what else is there to do on a Friday night? EXACTLY! LET'S WAX SOME PITS!!! I YANKED! I RIPPED! I PULLED THAT STRIP OFF! With each RRRRIIIIIPPPP!!! I could feel the POWER, and I could feel a new love for pain: pain that ends in RESULTS.
The Man came upstairs to put Ella to bed.
Me: "look at my PIT! Gaze upon THE PIT OF SUCCESS!!!"
The Man: *WINCE*!! Scrunches up face, and head tries to retreat into shoulders. Sharp intake of breath. "Oooo! It's BLEEDING!"
Me: rolling eyes at his silly, WEAK, male-ness. "It's not BLEEDING. It's just little broken blood spots. You know; like when you're playing volleyball that first time, bounce the ball off your forearms, and get all those little broken blood vessel dots."
the Man: "it looks SORE."
Pfft. What does he know.
Then I spent the next fifteen minutes admiring them. Stroking them like they were my two new babies. I feel like touching them even now. They are, quite simply, a wonder.
When I finally came downstairs, I told The Man; "tomorrow, after I've shaved off the superficial hairs that the wax strip can never get, I'm going to make you touch my pit, and you will know THE POWER."
He just shook his head in that long suffering way.
Some people will just NEVER get it. I wish all of you could feel my pits too. They are scrumptious.