What’s the Rub?

16 Apr

It all started out innocently enough.  It was a normal Friday morning.  I was exhausted, having worked the night before and stayed out until 5:15am talking to my weekly ride home about safety in the city and Dominican politics.  You know, the usual.  In bed by 5:45 am, exhausted and hoping to at least make it, asleep, until 10:30.  No such luck.  My stubborn body woke me up in the 9s and no matter how tightly I squeezed my eyelids it wouldn’t let me drift off again.  Oh well.  I had a busy day planned, anyway.  I shuffled down the hallway, brushed my teeth, and poured myself a cup of coffee, all in hopes of appearing awake enough for the friendly coffee date I had planned from 11.  Drinking coffee to prepare for coffee.  It always makes me think of how when I was growing up my mom requested that I clean up my room before someone came to clean the house.  I never understood that.  Wasn’t that what the cleaning people came for?  To clean?  It wasn’t until coffee before coffee that it really started making sense.  Anyway, I’m off topic.  Had my coffee, applied some of my favorite bright blue eyeliner to try and draw attention away from the massive bags under my eyes, and proceeded down the steps to meet my friend in front of my building to go drink some more coffee.  And more coffee we drank!  After 1 1/2 hours of hilarity, I was a little swimmy-brained from the excessive caffeine and also running late to my appointment in the city.  And this is where the story really begins.  Also, this is where Dad, if you’re reading this Dad, you should probably stop.  It might be awkward.

I have been going to the same salon to get waxed for 5 years.  They have some manicure tables set up in the front but I have never seen anyone use them.  The place is known for a great, professional, cheap Brazilian wax.  I have never taken them at their word and opt for something slightly less….bald.  Not only have I been going to the same salon forever, I have also been seeing the same lady.  Norah.  She is great.  We talk about her family, what she does on her holidays, I tell her about school.  This past Friday, as she was moving from the bikini to the lower leg, I asked her how her Easter was.  Her response, “not Easter, Passover.”  I never knew she was Jewish!  (I probably should have put that in quotes because I am fairly certain that is pretty much what I blurted out to her immediately, except change the “she” to a “you” and the “was” to a “were.”)  Anyway, she also didn’t realize I was Jewish.  We got really excited.  In the following moments of tribe-inspired glee, she forgot to put lotion on my bikini line to remove some of the stickiness of the excess wax.  I didn’t notice.  That is, I didn’t notice until I was walking up 5th Avenue from 34th street en route to 53rd street to meet my dad for an afternoon of hanging out and my underwear was chafing in the worst possible way.  I don’t even want to think about how I must have been walking.

Dad, you’re not still reading this, are you?  Because seriously, I would stop.

Panic started setting in.  I knew I was going to be out for the rest of the afternoon and evening because my father and I, along with my sister-in-law, Claire, and my boyfriend, Pete, had plans to go see a panel discussion on the integration of baseball (in honor of Jackie Robinson Day) at the Metropolitan Museum of Art where my uncle works.  I also knew I couldn’t possible deal with the discomfort for the rest of the evening.  Should I stop at a drug store and buy some Neosporin?  But then how would I apply it?  Maybe I could go into a cafe and sneak into the bathroom?   Then, my dad called.  I should meet him in 5 minutes.  Shit!  No time to enact the plan!  So, I met my dad on 53rd Street and he said to me the words I would normally love to hear but on this day nearly brought tears to my eyes:

“I was thinking we could just walk up to the museum.  It’s really not that far and it’s such a nice day and I really don’t get into the city that often.”

Sure, I said, mentally apologizing to my bikini line.  We started walking, slowly.  And then, a plan!

“You know Dad, I could really use a cup of coffee.  And, hey!  There is a cafe right there!  Do you mind if we stop in real fast?”

He didn’t.  I rushed across the street, nearly getting hit by a car in the process.  We got in line, I ordered the fourth coffee that I didn’t really need and then turned to my Dad and said,

“Hey Dad, I’m just gonna run and pee real fast.  Can you hold this?”

I then scurried off to the bathroom.  Shit.  No Neosporin!  Foiled again!  I tried to use some toilet paper to relieve myself off the excess wax, but to no avail.  I went out into the area with the sinks that was in between the men and women’s stalls (trying, unsuccessfully, not to think about all the germs that must be on the handle of the door leading from the toilet room to the hand-washing room) and wet a piece of paper towel.  Back into the stall.  Still, no improvement.  There was only one option.  I was going to have to go commando…in a skirt…and walk around the city…with my dad (who I imagine if he hadn’t heeded my advice earlier, has now stopped reading).

I stuck my underwear in my purse and headed out of the bathroom, trying to walk like a person still wearing underwear.  We carried on.  The day continued relatively uneventfully.  I was careful going up and down stairs and when sitting down and crossing and uncrossing my legs.  We walked through the Stein’s Collect exhibit (so awesome!) and a baseball card exhibit (not so awesome) and then met up with Claire who I couldn’t wait to tell the current state of affairs to, just as soon as my dad wasn’t in earshot.  It happened after dinner.  My dad and Pete shared a speedy walk towards the museum while Claire and I sauntered behind.  I told her the whole story.  She thought it was hilarious.

Fast forward after the panel discussion, after the not-so-great band that followed, and a round of drinks at a nearby bar.  We all parted ways.  Claire and my dad went to pick my brother up downtown and head to Jersey, and Pete and I hopped the train back to Brooklyn.  My bikini line still hurt.  I really thought I was never going to be able to wear underwear again.  The only answer, I thought, was ice.  So I took an ice pack out of the freezer, walked back to my room, laid down, and put it on my bikini line.  I then texted Claire the following:

“I am currently icing my bikini line.  Holy mother.”

I thought that was it.  But then, an email from Claire!

Friday was so much fun. Glad we did it. Also, I wanted to tell you that I got your text while driving, and we thought it may have been James responding, so I let Aaron check…yep, he saw your text and had the best reaction!!!! He didn’t say anything because your dad was in the car, but he definitely did not know what to do with that text, and said it served him right for reading my texts…too funny! I’m just glad it didn’t say anything about being commando around your dad!

Oh yea, Aaron, you probably shouldn’t be reading this either.

3 Responses to “What’s the Rub?”

  1. Mindy April 18, 2012 at 9:05 am #

    YOU ARE MOST AWESOME!!!!

  2. aaronfrank April 22, 2012 at 11:44 pm #

    THANKS FOR THE WARNING JERKFACE

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. Coney Island Shenanigans | franklyrebekah - August 26, 2014

    […] but really, Dad, you should just skip this one entirely.  It’s like that one time I wrote this blog post and warned you about not reading it and you read it anyway and then you regretted it.  Don’t […]

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