Yesterday was just one of those days. You know the kind I mean. Murphy seemed to be perched directly on my shoulder and personally directing the events of the day. Everything that could go wrong, did, and in a spectacular way.
The day started out with a series of minor annoyances, resulting in every task taking far longer than it should have. But then I made the rather perilous decision to wax my eyebrows. I should have known better.
Our microwave has been acting up lately. Sometimes it decides that all I deserve is to have something vaguely warm, no matter how long I put it in for, and at other times it decides to heat enough to melt diamonds. My friend Phil warned me about this. He has an open air restaurant right on the ocean. He has to replace his microwave frequently. He says it doesn't matter if you buy an expensive one or a cheap one, they all go. I guess it's time to replace mine.
I put my jar of wax in the microwave for a few seconds to heat it up. The machine beeped, and I went to retrieve the jar.
I should probably explain here for those of you who are not into home waxing that "wax" isn't actually wax. It is an incredibly sticky substance that looks like honey and becomes viscous when heated.
I guess the last time I used the jar, I didn't get the lid on tightly. It was only the cold wax acting like glue that was holding the lid securely in place. This happens to have been one of those times that my microwave went into super heat mode. I reached in to retrieve the jar – by the lid. The wax that was holding the lid on was now quite liquid and held for only the briefest of moments – just long enough to get the jar a good six inches over the counter – before letting go.
In case you are ever wondering, six inches seems to be the optimal fall height for maximum dispersion of wax when the jar makes contact with the counter. I was covered with malicious splashes of molten goo: my face, my neck, my arms and hands. Thankfully, anything below counter height was protected, but this being a very warm February day, I was wearing a light tank top, allowing for maximum skin exposure.
The pain was immediate, but it took a second to develop into real agony. Hot wax is like napalm. It sticks. And there isn't a damn thing to do about it. Wax is supposed to stick; that's the only way it will hold onto hairs well enough to yank them out by the roots. The whole concept of waxing is that the wax will adhere to the muslin strip you place over it better than it will your skin, and your skin will adhere to your body better than it will the wax. Under normal conditions this is true.
I started to use powdered dish soap to try and scrub off the wax, but several layers of crispy skin were coming with it. I removed as much as I could stand and just let the rest be. The left side of my face and my left arm and hand are now dotted with angry sores and remaining bits of sticky wax that I am hoping will wear off soon. At least my right hand was mostly spared, as that is the one I need most in day-to-day things.
I took a couple of Tylenol and sat down to whimper quietly and rail at my vanity that made me decide my eyebrows needed reshaping.
The phone started to ring. I debated not answering it, but I have a undeniable Pavlovian response to a ringing telephone, and picked it up just before the answering machine. It was a friend calling to invite Chuck and I down to Puerto Viejo for a beer. I was tempted to say no, but I thought, "A cold Pacifico by the beach and a Mazatlán sunset is exactly what I need right now". Chuck and I accepted the invitation.
I changed out of my wax-covered clothes, put on some shoes, and walked down the hill, not even caring that I looked like I had a budding case of leprosy. Vanity be damned. In retrospect, I should have stayed home and licked my wounds.
It was a glorious Mazatlán day. The sun was shining brightly. The ocean played a spirited tune on the rocks. The beer was cold. I was starting to think I had put the day behind me. I had even managed to ward off the several shots of tequila my friend, he of the bebida del diablo, tried to order for me. I was feeling pretty good. What could possibly go wrong whilst sitting at my favorite beach pub?
I felt the barest of tickles at my throat. I absentmindedly put my hand up to brush away whatever flotsam the wind had blown there. Suddenly my finger felt like someone had plunged a searing poker into it. I looked down to see a bee flying drunkenly away to die; his stinger was protruding from my index finger. Crap.
I sat there keening quietly and squeezing the sides of my finger in some bizarre attempt to keep the poison from entering my body. Everyone around me searched through pockets and purses, trying to come up with something to use to extract the stinger. Our waitress, Magui, solved the problem when she walked up, looked, and plucked it out with her fingers.
How is it that I have never been stung by a bee in my life before Mazatlán? I only know I am allergic as a result of a series of allergy tests all throughout my childhood. Now I have been stung twice.
Chuck ran off to fetch Benadryl. I choked down a handful of the hot pink micro-nuggets. Of course, Benadryl is imported from the US, and each pill is packaged individually in child-proof blister packs. Both of my hands were now useless, so I had a team of pill openers around me.
My index finger has swollen up like a sausage. I am typing with two fingers on one hand and three on the other. I just took another fist full of Benadryl, so I am sure I will be going back to bed soon. Maybe Murphy will find me a boring subject while I am sleeping and move on to someone else. Thankfully, tomorrow is Sun Day. I am a firm believer that a day at the beach can cure anything.
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|SAdministrator |m-d-Y H:i:s jenniferI didn't think I had been focusing on anything at all! I guess I'd better start, huh?
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Take care, Nancy