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Hey, at least they no longer use leeches, so that’s progress.
Unless they still do?
A quick search on Precious later, I learn that they do indeed still utilize the little blood-sucking monsters, and that the FDA somehow managed to classify leeches as a “living medical device to clear localized blood clots.”
The article mentions that maggots are used too, and I stop reading there, because gross.
Monkey peeks out of her cage and squeaks.
I give her half of a grape. “I know, I’m procrastinating.”
Snatching the grape, Monkey hides in her little house.
Fine. I can figure this out on my own.
Jumping on my laptop, I open a fresh spreadsheet, name it “testing on myself,” and fill out two columns: pro and con.
Under “con” are things like: “might be hard to face my coworkers afterward, especially the Impaler” and “it’s a less realistic test than if there were a second person involved.”
In the “pro” column are tidbits such as: “keep my job,” “Ava might be right and this could be fun,” and “prove ex wrong.”
Since the pro column ends up longer, I reluctantly accept the inevitable.
“I’ll be my own guinea pig,” I say out loud. “No offense, Monkey.”
Precious pings.
It’s a text from Ava.
So? You doing it?
I reply with the okay sign.
I’d wax if I were you. Makes one feel sexy.
Seriously? I text back.
Like a heart attack. Now stop beating around the bush and get rid of your bush. Emojis of lips, cat face, cherries, flower, peace sign, wishbone, hot spot, and peach are followed by a razor.
I didn’t even know there was a razor emoji.
Silencing the phone, I dart a glance at the suitcase.
Nope.
Not ready yet.
Maybe Ava is right. Would I be more eager if I made myself prettier down under?
Since the jungle that is my legs is on my to-do list anyway, I’ll just do that and some ladyscaping at the same time. The breakup with my ex made me experiment a little in this area. I’ve tried styling my pubes geometrically with upside-down and regular triangles, aeronautically with a landing strip, and—briefly—what could best be described as a dictator’s mustache.
Speaking of, what’s with all the dictators sporting a ’stache? I bet one started the trend, and the dictator-sheep copycatted. Come to think of it, their inspiration might’ve been the original Vlad the Impaler. The painting of him had a mustache so big and bushy, he probably had a pet name for it, like Pufos—which means fluffy in Romanian.
Thank the hipster gods “my” Impaler doesn’t have such a crime against nature above his kissable lips. He only has a little bit of sexy stubble up there—just the way I like it.
In any case, nowadays I’m sporting a retro bush of epic proportions, with cobwebs and tumbleweeds down there, and “No Trespassing” signs. This isn’t a feminist statement, unfortunately, just a sign of self-neglect.
Well, even if feeling sexy weren’t a goal, getting that hair under control could make locating my bits a little easier for the testing—so off it shall go.
