A Life Lesson

OK, so I'm leaving in less than 48 hours, but I just had to squeeze in one more post, just to pass on the lesson I learned today, in hopes I can spare just one of you from my pain.

NEVER EVER EVER EVER GET YOUR ARMPITS WAXED. I'm not even close to kidding. I thought, "Well, I get waxing done for free at the spa, and I would like pearly, stubble-free, razor-burn-free armpits so that I may do the YMCA dance at the wedding without fear."

First of all, waxing your pits hurts like hellfire. I had to do lamaze breathing, and I am no pansy. I'd rather have my bait shop waxed than my pits.

Second, YOU BLEED. Accprding to the esthetician, everyone bleeds, but I bled more than most. Terrific.

Third, waxing doesn't get all of the hair out. After they've waxed all they can, and you're whimpering in the fetal position for Calgon to take you away, they PLUCK the rest out with tweezers.

I stupidly had this done at the beginning of my shift today, and then I had to do THREE deep tissue massages with armpits that felt like buzzards were ripping strips of flesh off of me.

Learn from my mistake, young ones. A little pit stubble or razor burn ain't gonna kill ya, but waxing those pits just might.

What was I thinking? The day I ran a race.

I ran a race yesterday in Spokane called "Bloomsday". It is seven-point-something miles of torture, because it's not flat ground the whole way (oh, wait, I live in the MOUNTAINS now?) and there are lots of people who do not obey the walk-right-run-left rule. This not only added AT LEAST another half-mile onto my run by having to zig-zag amongst the hand-holding schmoopies dressed in spiderman costumes and some old man carrying an folded-up umbrella that he was swinging so hard I thought he was going to impale someone, but tested my patience. Had I not been gasping for air like Princess Buttercup after emerging from the sand pits in the Fire Swamp, I'd have yelled "RUN LEFT! WALK RIGHT! SO WE ARE NOT HERE ALL NIGHT!!" to everyone breaking the rule. I confess to not running the entire thing due to a ridiculous half-mile-long hill they call Doomsday, and I think I may have permanently damaged vital organs, but I finished and got my t-shirt, which my daughter promptly ran off with when I got home. Now I hurt all over. I tried to get out of bed this morning and my feet snorted derisively and said, "Nice try, moron. You make us run twice the longest distance you've ever run in your life and then expect to put any weight on us the next day? Grab a wheelchair, pal."

I was wearing my quirkyblogger.com shirt, though, Steph, so everyone that looked to see who was sucking wind so loudly saw your blog site. I'd post the picture of me, but I'm too computer-stoopid to get it off my camera and the spouse is in Seattle.

Next year I'm walking that mother.