Hot Wax and Lies - The Makings of Any Good Relationship

Despite deriding the TMI girl in my previous post, I'm going to have to become one ....

This evening I went to my local salon to get a bikini wax. Bikini waxes are incredibly awkward, and what makes it even more awkward is that the waxer often talks to you. Not that I'm all Karen Walker "I don't talk to the help" or anything, but there are some instances where a conversation is inappropriate. When I'm practically nude from the waist down is one of those times.

After getting me a glass of red wine (What?! This is a painful process! Way worse than getting a tattoo. And everyone knows that the quickest way to get my pants off is to offer me wine . . . but that's neither here nor there.) she starts doing her thing while making small talk. She asks me about the weather ("It's a normal temperature out!"), about my job ("It's too far from my apartment!"), and what I'm going to have for dinner ("A salad with salmon on it!").

Then she asks if I have a boyfriend. Now I KNOW she'll think I'm a slut if I say no. I mean, if you're not getting a bikini wax for your boyfriend, you must be getting a bikini wax for all the Pauly D-type dudes you're banging every night in the bathroom of Rumours, you whore. She'll never believe that I do this because I'm remarkably lazy. So I say.... yes.

Waxer: Oh really! What's his name?

Me: Uh... Mark.

Waxer: How long have you been dating?

Me: About six months, give or take?

And as she's asking me, I find myself making up this elaborate relationship that I have with Mark, a Secret Service agent from Portland. She asked if I was meeting him for dinner, but unfortunately I only get to see him about three times a week because of his job. But for his birthday we went skiing for a long weekend in Maine, which was awesome. Yes, waxer, I DID meet his parents. I was nervous at first, but they were really welcoming. Thank you so much for asking.

Finally after detailing how Mark and I first met in the metro and our plans to go to to New York for the weekend, the wax had come to an end. I put on my pants, paid the tab, and ended it with my Secret Service agent. (My relationships usually end with those three components, but never before in that order.)

And then I was off to Rumours.