I had an hour of alone time this morning. It was glorious–I made my coffee, drove out of the driveway before my children even woke up. My husband fed them breakfast, all so I could have my one hour to myself. What did I do, you wonder? Did I eat an egg white omelet alone in my favorite Italian cafe? Did I browse the bargains stacks at Barnes and Noble? Did I manage an early morning yoga class?
None of the above. I spent my one hour driving to and from a bikini wax appointment.
How sad is this? THIS is how I choose to spend time away from my children, having hot wax rip the hair from my nether regions. I could tell you that I live in south Florida, making waxing a necessity. I could tell you that after seeing the Sex in the City movie, and hearing Samantha’s line, “Jesus, honey, wax much?” that I resolved never to incite horror in my friends again. I could tell you that I don’t want to wear soccer shorts over my swimsuit. Or, I could tell you that I’m vain and I like the way it looks. All of this would be way too much information.
But on my drive home, it made me really think about HOW I spend my alone time away from my children. Too often, I run errands that I find too annoying to do with two kids in tow: the post office, the bank, the dry cleaners. Not often enough do I spend my hour of free time doing the things I’d really love to do: browse that bookstore, walk on that beach, eat that croissant, get my nails done while reading Us magazine.
I’m making it sound like my husband only grants me one hour to myself weekly. He’d laugh at that because he’s the one who’s always saying, “Go do something! Make plans! Get out of the house!” He’s happy to let me off my leash, as he’d put it.
It’s me who’s the problem. My excuse to him is usually this: I have no one to do anything with spur of the moment. My girlfriends and I go out regularly on Wednesday nights, but that takes advance planning. I don’t have any friends here who aren’t moms; our lives are wrapped up with people who are half the size and take four times as much energy as ourselves. If I have a free hour on a Saturday afternoon, I’d love to be able to call a girlfriend and say, “Hey, let’s meet for an iced coffee and a walk.” But our schedules don’t often align unless planned well in advance. And it’s hard for me, a highly social creature, to just be alone.
I need to get better at this. I need to drag my kids into the dry cleaners and save my weekend time for my own nonsense. I need to put on my flip-flops and relax in the steam room at the gym. I need to go to a bar for happy hour by myself. Not to pick up, mind you, especially because here in Boca, the last man who hit on me was probably older than my father, but to enjoy a cold beer on tap.
My friend, Leslie, told me that the last time she had a bikini wax, she had to bring her two young girls with her. “Why didn’t you call, you could’ve left them with me,” I told her. She didn’t want to bother me.
I pictured the “waxing specialist” twirling the purple hot wax onto a popsicle-like stick, then spreading it on their mother’s spreaded form. I pictured a four year-old and a two year-old looking on with horror. I envisioned the questions they’d ask, the uncomfortable made-up answers, the embarrassment on the adults’ faces.
I’ve decided that my wax appointments will always be during my alone time. I’ll just try to mix it up a bit more, too.
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