OK so I actually had my massage, nearly backed out a hundred times. You see, in order to have this massage I have to go into the gym where I was once a star pupil, come face to face with the trainers (suck in the air of bitter disappointment and failure), strip down and get massaged by a masseuse who last saw me another 10kilos lighter than this. Not easy - and yes, that was my reward. Once again, I am a walking train crash on a hell bent mission to destroy myself slowly but surely. This all had to be done because they are the best massages EVER! Totally worth the soul destroying walk of shame through the gym. Would have been more enjoyable if the masseuse didnt talk to me the whole time. I really like to zone out but we chitchatted right through every pressure point so I really dont remember much of the massage or how great it was but I am sore still so I suppose it was great.
I have more pics to post but I'm rethinking them honestly. For a few reasons - number one being - My eyebrows. Yes, my eyebrows have seen better days - the name groucho has been thrown around more than once this week and I know people are staring. You see I have very pale eyebrows which, under down lights are completely non existent and make me look like a chemo patient. I get sympathetic stares wherever I go (or maybe its my huge fat arse that attracts all the sympathy? Well this week its my eyebrows). Every once in a while instead of getting my arse up to the beauticians (theres a reason why I dont go to the beautician but we'll get to that later) I dye my own eyebrows and I ALWAYS look like Groucho Marx for a day or two but this time I looked like John Howard (AKA Snuffaluffagus) for a whole week. My mother mixed the dye and I just dont know why I thought that was OK? I still cant understand why I partook of anything my mother was involved in creating????? Anyhow,the dye made my eyebrows go completely black and my hair is completely blonde and no, I do not look all cool and edgy like Gwen Stefani or even slightly interesting ah lah Marilyn Monroe. Just shit really. The kids think I look permenantly cranky. My husband still shudders when I walk around the corner or open the front door to him. My sister is still laughing and my mother thinks they look nice. That says it all. I have learnt that if something looks good to my mother then the rest of the universe will reject it like a runt puppy with a manky leg. I can feel people talking to my eyebrows and not to me (nice change from talking to the DD cup twins). I bought hair bleach and applied it 4 times and it toned it down just enough so my sister only dampened her knickers - not completely soaked them although my husband still wants the lights off if he has to kiss me. So all my pics of the two month bandiversary are headless and look ridiculous and I also noticed, only about 1 - 2 kilos different from the one month anniversary so no different at all really! Interesting and confronting. Still, I'm happy. Technically the band isnt working yet so any loss is a bonus. I go to a support group and there are actually real living, breathing people out there who have had a band for a year and have no restriction and have not lost a gram. All in all, I'm doing ok. If you dont count the eyebrows.
So I hear you ask, why I dont I go to the beautician and get them to fix the said eyebrows? My first and last brazillian is the reason why. This story is, in part, inspired by Forever Fat Girl's waxing story but the eyebrows create the greatest post traumatic stress and bring up the repressed memories. You see my big, fat, roly-poly jutse turned out to be very hard to wax (not to mention painful). I took the 7 year old with me, she was only one at the time (put the phone down and lets leave DOCS out of this). She was always so good at sitting in the pram and looking cute but for some reason her mothers cries for mercy unsettled her and she ended up sitting on my chest and pulling at my already contorted face. The beautician was slapping on that wax and tearing it off and I swear she was going to take a labia with it. If I told her once the wax was too hot I told her 100 times but I'd never had a brazillian before so I thought the pain was all part of the fun.
The poor beautician, lets call her The Punisher, was having a terrible time holding back the various folds and flip flaps and flap jacks to create a smooth and svelte labia and boy was it taking its toll on the girl. What started out as a 20 minute job was turning into a beauticians working bee as another beautician, hearing my daughters cries and sensing fear in her own kind whacked the door open exposing my most vital love muscle to the world and asking through popped chewy if The Punisher needed any help? And boy were we running late by this time! The first daughter had to be collected from kindy or they were going to call DOCS (maybe I should just have a link to them on my blog) and the The Punisher was moving ever faster, the wax was getting ever hotter and the one year old was now straddling my throat with sharp little nails and a squeal that could crack concrete. Fun.
Before I knew it (no less than one hour) the pain was over and I was high tailing it to kindy with a strangely sticky and, oddly enough, a not so smooth pair of labs. Of course as luck would have it, I got pulled over by the cops for speeding but seeing me crying my eyes out and hearing the words "kindy, DOCS, wax and labia" they let me off and we were on our way again. Later that night with all kids in bed and The Punisher just a distant memory we decide to partake of the freshly manicured love lawn and oh what a sight to behold! The words "plucked chook" come to mind but really, you would have to put "sunburnt" and "leprosy" in there somewhere for it to be truly accurate. The wax was in fact on the hot side and my parts were, effectively, sunburnt. The difficulty of the job meant that it was, of course, not done properly so there was an array of varying length hair left behind in a "chemo - esque" patchy, male pattern baldness kind of fashion. There was a hot red landing strip on the extra sensitive bits and on the REALLY sensitive bits, skin was beginning to wrinkle and peel. Mmmm, come and get me boys! My poor husband still goes limp at the thought of it. What started out as an adventurous, lets-surprise-the-hubby kind of long weekend dabble in the kinky side of life ended up as a week of abstinence, skin peeling sessions and a phobia of beauticians and wax. The most pain my poor little jutse cops these days is non sensitive Nair and let me tell you, THAT stuff gets it smooth, every time, no tears, no fuss.
So The Punisher was the best eyebrower in these parts and I dont have enough eyebrow left to take the chance on any other beautician. I still cannot look The Punisher in the eye and I do see her on the street. I can feel my labia spasm long before I actually see her so most times I get enough warning and can cross the street so we dont have to share that uncomfortable moment where I know she's thinking I have the most gruesome, over sized, roly poly jutse she's ever laid eyes on. I just know she's cringing and thinking of my husband slapping my thigh and catching a sunburnt, peeling, patchy wave in.