Too much information, I know.

This is going to be too much information–I get that. I created this to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So, here it goes.

Recently, my husband and our two friends decided that we were going to plan a trip to Costa Rica for summer 2017. (I’ll blog about that later) Being the obsessive people that we are, we began planning every single solitary detail. And I mean every detail. Right down to shaving areas where the sun doesn’t shine. My friend going with us, Sabrina, chimed in that it would be a good idea for the girls to get Brazilian waxes before leaving. This is something I had never even considered doing, ever. I pondered the idea in my head for a few days and then I decided— why the hell not?

I’m not the bravest person on the planet when it comes to nudity. So, I couldn’t bring myself to get it professionally done because that’s awkward, way too awkward. The thought of the awkwardness has me cringing as I type. I just couldn’t manage. So I turned to the only person that I know of that would be comfortable waxing that region… my husband.

If you’ve met my husband before, you just spit out your drink. You know with 100% certainty that Ricky told me no. But, that’s just it, he didn’t tell me no. He said it was worth a shot.

Like any normal human, we turned to the Internet to get educated. YouTube had a lot to offer on the subject. After about 2 hours, we were basically licensed professionals. We set a date to put our new professionalism into fruition and I began the growing process. For those of you that don’t know (it was a surprise to me as well), your hair has to be a certain length for waxing to be effective.

On the night of the waxing, I was excited. I was confident that this would be easy. The process started out perfectly. I could write a how-to-blog right now on how to properly prepare and begin the waxing process. And that’s about all I could write because what I didn’t see coming was the pain. Ricky pulled off the first bit of wax and I screamed. I screamed so loud that I’m certain the neighbors heard. In fact, the human language has failed on providing words to describe that sort of pain. I guess I’ll have to compare it to an exorcism—with my hair being the demon that needed removing. I was screaming and my back was lifting itself up towards the sky. Suddenly I was laughing uncontrollably, crying, and screaming some more. To be honest, I’m disappointed that my neighbors didn’t call the cops after hearing all that screaming. I could have been being murdered, that’s what it sounded like anyway.

Needless to say, we weren’t able to finish.

I’m still recovering,