Based on the stats, it seems y’all most appreciate the posts wherein I describe my humiliating moments. Thanks? I think? For those of you who don’t know, I blogged privately for six years before launching this blog, and I decided to pull a post from that old blog that I thought you might appreciate. Some of you will remember it and cringe; others who haven’t yet been exposed to my uncanny knack for injuring myself will cringe, then probably point and laugh. Enjoy!
Hair Removal Confession (Originally posted March 2008)
I was planning to go for a swim today at the JCC, but once it started snowing, I decided that the last thing I wanted to do was strip down and throw my lily-white, shivering self into a pool of water measuring less than 85 degrees. However, in anticipation of swimming, I made it a point to engage in all of the requisite hair removal activities that women in our culture are subjected to. Including, you know…ahem, trimming and whatnot. And honestly, I don’t mind doing those things too much. Unless something goes horribly awry. This morning’s rituals were uneventful, but it did bring to mind a certain morning not long ago that didn’t end so happily. It was right before my daughter was born, and I decided that in anticipation of childbirth, I needed to make sure things were, shall we say, manageable in the baby-birthing region. I figured there was going to be BLOOD! GORE! AMNIOTIC FLUID! And I didn’t want things to be unnecessarily messy. Now, keep in mind that I was eight months pregnant, looking more like Melville’s white whale than not. Keep in mind that I also couldn’t actually make visual contact with the anatomical area in question. Keep in mind that I had scissors and pregnancy brain.
Initially things went along quite well (although in retrospect, I’m not sure how I know this since I couldn’t see what the devil I was doing), but then came the fateful snip that took with it a significant chunk of skin. There was that stomach-dropping moment when I realized what had happened but my brain hadn’t registered pain yet. Then there was nothing but blood, screaming, and searing agony. My poor husband rushed into the bathroom when he heard the shrieking and streams of choice words, thinking that I was giving birth right there in the shower. Instead, I had to explain to him, between staunching the bleeding and moans of agony, that my own idiocy had resulted in a painful, bleeding crotch wound. He made the wise decision to simply nod and ask if I needed anything rather than invoke further wrath by laughing out loud at me, but I’m certain I saw a smirk on his face as he left the room. Once the bleeding stopped, I decided things down there were good enough, and I had enough sense to quit before doing any further damage. What’s worse is that once I did give birth a short while later, I KNOW everyone in the birthing room HAD to have seen it, but between contractions and trying to forcefully eject a baby from my girly bits, I didn’t exactly have all the time in the world to explain myself. Nothing like a little private humiliation gone public to keep me humble.
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