It was a weird weekend. And not just because I spent part of it sitting in a room full of strangers wearing Saran Wrap underpants.
Or as I like to call it...Saturday.
Perhaps I should explain...
For a few years now, I've been thinking about getting laser hair removal for my most intimate of areas........my armpits. (Stop judging and let me know what your most intimate area is after 11 years of marriage. You have to get creative.)
[Due to the sensitive nature of what I am sharing, the overuse of "air quotes" begins below. "Thanks."]
I'm actually referring to my "bikini area." I have been thinking about getting this lasered for a few years now and finally decided to go for it...in the blissfully ignorant way that I make most decisions that cost a lot of money and have the potential for extreme humiliation.
Turns out, this is no simple procedure...it is a process of six treatments over the course of a year. After filling out more paperwork than I had to complete at my house closing, I made an appointment for my first treatment.
Based on the suggestion of the "medspa" where I'm having this done, I arrived an hour early to go into a room and apply numbing cream to my "area" and then wrap the entire area in plastic wrap and sit in a lounge they call the "Sanctuary" while the numbing cream took effect. (This "medspa" offers a variety of services that you'd never want anyone to know you're having...such as Botox and laser liposuction. It conveniently shares a lobby with the Little Gym...so every time I go, there is a good chance I will see the parents of one of my daughter's playmates who can speculate on which narcissistic/insane treatment I'm electing to have.)
I entered the "Sanctuary" which really consisted of three hard-backed chairs in a 6'x6' room (though it was dim and did have some spa music playing) and tried to position myself in a way that the other ladies in the room would not see my plastic underpants and also so that I did not shift and lose the underpants. On a relaxation scale, I would equate this to having your father-in-law read something you wrote about vaginas on the chalkboard in your kitchen or wetting your pants at work.
One interesting thing I noticed while sitting there was that the room in which I applied my numbing cream was right next door, and through the paper-thin walls, you could clearly hear any conversation between the numbing cream applicatee and the technician. As I tend to be overly chatty when I am uncomfortable or nervous, I recalled that when I was in there, I had asked the technician to repeat the procedure for creating Saran Wrap underpants and had also remarked, "Oh...so just like I do at home?" (I suppose they also heard the crickets chirping in the "Sanctuary.")
It felt like I was in the "Sanctuary" forever. And after a few women had cycled in and out, I finally turned on my cell phone to check the time and discovered that it was HALF AN HOUR after my appointment was to have taken place. I poked my head out of the "Sanctuary" door to look for someone and saw no one. So, in my robe, while holding up my Saran Wrap underpants and with a completely numb crotchal region, I began wandering the halls in search of anyone who could help, and found myself in the shared lobby. (And permanently off the play date list...)
They got me into a treatment room ASAP, which is when they really let me know who's boss, by TAKING A PICTURE of the "area to be treated" as a "before" photo. Honestly, this clinician had access to more than my husband did in our first five years of marriage.
The treatment itself took about ten minutes and was pretty painless. Or as painless as it could be while I was naked in a spread-eagle position on the table while wearing dark glasses to protect my eyes from the laser.
So, every two months for the next year, I have this to look forward to.
I wonder if they make a cream to numb the shame?