The things I can't write about. Until now, apparently.

For the past few weeks, I have been really struggling with something very private. It has been a time of healing. Of personal reflection. A time to consider pros and cons, benefits and drawbacks, need vs want, expense vs value. It has been a hard road, and this weekend I finally came to a resolution. I found my inner peace.

And I thought, "You absolutely cannot write about that."

Oh, but I can.

I have been unemployed for quite some time now, by choice, while I write a book. I am looking forward to completing it, knowing that I can write a book when I always thought I couldn't, having it be published, perhaps having it be read by people not related to me. Or just uploading it to Amazon and hoping for the best. Either way. I want to finish it.

But I don't want to finish it just for those very valid reasons. I want to finish it because I am sick and tired of being broke, and I do not - it turns out - enjoy being a stay-at-home mother with no income of my own. I do not enjoy it at all. And there is one very, very important and life-altering reason why I want money of my own.

Bikini Waxes.

For months and months, I have been forgoing my bikini waxes in order to save money. "They are a luxury" I keep telling myself. "When you sell the book, you can get all the bikini waxes you want! You could even opt for laser treatment instead - that's like getting a permanent bikini wax!" So I held out this carrot. This wonderful, fabulous carrot.

Finish the book, get a bikini wax.

I tried to distract myself with alternatives. I bought a cream hair remover and my hands smelled so awful I gagged every time I brought them anywhere near my face. It smelled like I had tried to embalm my crotch.

So I thought "I'll just shave it!" And let me tell you, as a person who barely manages to shave her own legs without life-threatening blood loss, as a woman who routinely stabs herself in the eyeball applying eyeliner and had a permanent curling iron burn on her forehead from 1988-1992, the idea of putting a razor anywhere not only hard to see, but also EXTREMELY DELICATE WITH LOTS OF HIDDEN FOLDY BITS was a truly terrible idea. For a few minutes there, I thought I might have done some permanent damage.

Once the blood had clotted and I knew the danger had passed, I said to myself, "Fuck selling a book. If I have to start selling off my jewelry to afford a bikini wax, SO BE IT." However, instead of selling my family jewels, because Sam is still attached to them, I decided to just get a job.

Yeah, that's right. I decided to get a job, to pay for my bikini waxes. And by extension, to save my life. Because if I had to shave that region again, someone would find me dead in the shower. Death by Pink Safety Razor.

Basically, I am doing this so that my children are not left motherless. I am always thinking of others.

And so I went through a very uncomfortable few weeks that women who wax know is the imperative "regrowth" period. I also needed all of the self-inflicted wounds to heal. By the time I finally got on the table at the salon, I was almost giddy with anticipation. Any guy who has skipped shaving for a few days knows the itchy, prickly discomfort I was experiencing. Multiply that by 3 weeks and imagine it on your ballsack, and you may have some vague notion of my mental state. I was ready already.

"Woah HO!" my aesthetician exclaimed. "It's been a while!"

"Well, I know you like a project" I said sweetly.

She was almost gleeful. It was like the 70's down there, and she was going to see some serious results from her efforts. It was the perfect opportunity to take some before and afters, but having learned my lesson in the matter of intimate photographs after "The Great Missing Photos of 1994 crisis", I certainly wouldn't have volunteered. I'm just saying that, as a fan of the show "Extreme Home Makeover", I can assure you the reveal was going to be spectacular. Move. That. Fucking. Bus.

I walked out of there 20 minutes later with a spring in my step and a new lease on life. It was money well-spent. I was at peace, physically and emotionally. And my children would grow up knowing their mother.

When I got home, I announced what I had done.

"I wondered why you hadn't had an appointment lately." Sam said.

"I was trying to save money." I explained.

He stared at me. "What?"

"It seemed like a luxury. An unnecessary luxury. But my god, it was getting out of control down there."

"Listen," he said matter-of-factly. "It is a luxury. And I don't really care one way or the other. That was hardly 'out of control'. But I will tell you this: I would HAPPILY pay for you to have that done every month."

"I thought you didn't care one way or the other." I was triumphant. If I could get him to say he liked it, then I could justify getting it done on his dime, and not feel guilty.

"It's not going to deter me if you don't." he explained. "But it's definitely going to encourage me if you do."

EXCELLENT.

There are a few more things on the personal honey do list that I have been putting off that might not be covered by my part-time job. Things that I plan to address when I "sell the book". Things like highlights to blend my gray. Getting my nails done. Botox. And now, I am thinking that it is SELFISH of me to wait.

If mama ain't happy, ain't no one happy. AMIRIGHT?

And so, I am making my appointments. Because its almost Sam's birthday and I am doing this for HIM.
Best Wife Ever. Right here. That would be me. And that is BEFORE I schedule our dual massage.

Because I'm a giver.