I'm going on a vacation in a couple of days. A vacation where I will spend a large part of it on the beach working on my tan. A vacation where I will be forced to throw on a bathing suit many consecutive days in a row.
I try never to wear bathing suits. And the one I would wear if I absolutely had to is boy-cut. So, it's not that I'm fond of unruly jungles, and I do maintain "that area" well enough, but the need for perfection is not that necessary. Any other time that part of my body is viewed, the person doing the viewing is not really searching for...uh...stray branches.
Regardless, on this vacation I will be wearing a bikini. Prompting the need for more than just a careless swipe with a razor. For the first time in my life, I got a bikini wax. And you know what? OW!
Me: How old are your kids?
Torture Inflictor: They are four and six. *rub, rub, rub, RIP*
Me: OH THOSE ARE NICE AGES. DO THEY GO TO SCHOOL HERE?
TI: My son goes to [local school].
Me: That's a nice school. Well, I don't really know because that's not where my kids went, and I didn't go there either, but I know other people who went there, I mean their kids went there and they seem to like it. Well, they liked it, their kids don't go there anymore...
...BUT THEY USED TO GO THERE AND WHEN THEY WENT THERE, THEY LIKED IT.
TI: *eyes dart around making sure there's an escape route*
Apparently, when I'm in a shitload of pain I can still have a normal conversation. A totally coherent and not at all crazy conversation. As you can see I maintained a steady voice throughout and didn't babble unintelligibly. I'm very proud.