Saying Yes to The Big Easy

Traveling is good. It can stretch you out of your comfort zone and as a result, invite change. Transformation.

When I got on the plane for New Orleans, I felt a rush: I’m in an airplane. I’m going somewhere. I’m going to experience something new.

When a friend of mine told me that she was going there for a conference and asked if I wanted to meet her there, I hesitated for a moment. New Orleans? Isn’t that one of the most extroverted cities in the United States? I don’t know…

“Sure! Why not!” I said a moment later.

Who am I to say no to an opportunity like that? Sometimes an introvert has to push her anxiety aside to go meet life. Give it a big hug (and you know how I appreciate a good hug).

Was I transformed? No, not like in past trips I’ve taken. But it’s a fascinating part of the world. The only other southern state I’ve been to is Kentucky and I do so appreciate Southern hospitality, Sugar. Delicious food, sultry (I prefer this word as opposed to soaking, which I was) weather, local architecture…it’s good for the body, mind and soul to be out of your regular routine and shake things up a bit.

However, I could have done without the rowdy crowd mentality and the activity of drinking-likker-in-the-streets: “HELLO LADIES!!! YOU’RE CHINESE, AREN’T YOU!!!” Uh, no, we’re not, but we’re not going to stop and tell you that. We weren’t even on Bourbon Street, which we studiously tried to avoid.

As the plane took off on the connecting flight home, I gazed down at the twinkling city lights below. So pretty… I wanted to turn to a traveling companion and say just that; I wanted to share that experience with someone. And when I looked out and up at the stars, I wanted to have someone to look at those stars with me.

Crap. Now I was sad.

It happens.

Sometimes you just have to accept that your emotions have a life of their own. Respect them, and they’ll respect you. The more you try and fight what you don’t want to feel, the more you betray yourself. Emotions are constantly flowing throughout you in varying degrees. So go with the flow, I say. (But please seek help if you’re feeling entirely overwhelmed.)

Perhaps I was wrong after all. I’ve had a delayed, mini-transformation, because today, I was gloriously happy. But that’s another story.

Wax On, Wax Off

Men, you see the title of this post, right? I’m not talking about surfboards or cars or what you are carrying around in your ears. I think you should just move along. There’s nothing of interest for you to read here.

Have you left yet?

Why are you still reading this?

Okay, I guess you need a proper scaring off: tampons, ally mcbeal, reverse vasectomies, i love you, menopause, RuPaul (unless you adore him…then you can stay), pms, do i look fat in these pants?, prison on valentine’s day.

Are they gone now?

Wow, some of those things are really frightening. I almost left this post myself.

This is really not that bad. I just felt a little uncomfortable with the idea of men reading about my thoughts on getting waxed. I’ve never done it before. No, not there! I meant my armpits. I suppose I could have just mentioned this in the beginning and the men would have left based on the topic alone, but you know me (or maybe you don’t want to), I’m a little twisted that way.

I’ve been through more painful things, I’m sure. As least, I think I have. But the thought of it makes me cringe. On the other hand, being 5 o’clock shadow-free is an appealing notion.

See, I’m going to be in New Orleans in a few weeks, and I hear it’s incredibly hot and humid in August. In fact, I just checked. The high is 90, the “low” is 79. Anyways, I would like to have hair-free pits so that I can frantically wave down taxis, pound shots of Tequila, hang on monkey bars, wave up to men on their 9th story balconies, and sit back like a lady with my hands folded behind my head. All things I’ve been wanting to do for a long time while wearing a tank top.

I was encouraged to grow the hair out for at least five days. Doing so gives the wax something to hang on to as it rips the hair out of each hair socket.

I feel a little queasy.

I was warned that the first time would hurt a little because the hairs aren’t used to being treated this way. So now my armpit hairs have feelings? What about mine??

Apparently, the next time I have it done, the hairs won’t put up as much of a fight. They start to get conditioned to the harsh treatment and recognize what’s about to happen: “Oh, right…I’m being evicted. No need for violence. I’ll go more willingly this time.” Feelings and logical thinking? I haven’t been giving those hairs enough credit.

And then I was informed that the longer the hair, the less it will hurt.

Ten days of hair, it is.

I’m getting queasy again.