"I thought this job would be glamorous."

I was chatting with Anonymous, my inveterate waxer.

"You know- I'd spend my days tranforming women's skin, with a few deft strokes arranging brows into perfect arches, leaving a face glowing from a good facial, giving massages. Pretty things.

Instead, it's mostly vaginas.

Honestly, I could do with less vagina in my life. My boyfriend thinks I'm crazy, of course. He gets all confused- How could someone *not* want to stare at a vagina all day? How can one talk about seeing 'too many' vaginas?

Of course, try as I might, I can't seem to convince him that softcore porn hasn't been going on in here this entire time. I'm pretty sure he thinks that I'm standing here in a frenchmaid outfit and 5" heels wielding a tiny spatula at your nether regions, the lights are soft and flickering, you're on the table in a corset and stillettos, and each pull of wax is interspersed with us frantically making out."

We built upon this image with one absurdity after another until we were both helplessly laughing at the chasm between that and reality: messy wax and wax paper, blotchy skin, an unsexy and tiny and blindingly lit room, and black jeans and comfortable shoes.

I relayed this hilarity to S, who predictably said "I dont understand- too many vaginas?" and then promptly got lost in a mental haze somewhere around french maid and corset.

shameful admission

I want to go dancing.

No, not stompy-gothy-dancing.

I want to go big-booty-shaking, sweaty, grinding-against-strangers dancing to awful pop music so sweet that my dentist will have nightmares.

Anyone know where I might accomplish that?