Real girls in their own place.
Not too crazy and just a pinch of naughty...
I was finally able to make an appointment with my waxer this morning for a bikini wax. She had been away on vacation for a couple weeks, and my patience was wearing thin, while other things were growing…OK, you get the point.
My waxer’s name is Tanya, and she is the Russian mother you never knew you wanted. I love her because she is affordable and fast. Tanya takes no hesitation to wax, strip, and rip.
A lot of places make a whole production of the thing, belaboring every single strip of wax. I think it’s because most estheticians are nice young women who are embarrassed by putting their hands all up in lady parts (not that I blame them). The end result is a painful forty minute appointment.
Not Tanya though. I am in and out in 10 minutes! AND, she plays CNN and discusses politics with you like you’re a real human. Like it’s not degrading at all to have someone say, “turn over,” so they can rip the hair out of your ass.
Anyway, I finally made the appointment because it had been a long time, and it was just my birthday so I’m still in a “treat yo’self” mindset. (Also, I may or may not be involved in a second MIMP shoot this week…)
I told Tanya that I wanted a bikini wax, but you know, the whole thing.
"Of course the whole thing," she said.
"Does anyone just do the old fashioned bikini wax anymore?"
"No, not at all. Everything off. I have a 75 year old woman who does a full bikini and her legs," she said matter of factly.
WHAT??? News to me! Now I’m debating if I should leave a little something, something behind…
P.S. I know guys don’t really care either way; I do it for myself, but what do you guys think? Is it better to wax or go au naturale?
I hate to admit it, but twenty-eight is creeping up on me in a couple weeks, and I can’t help but be conscious of this black mark on the passage of time. I’m deeply aware real-time aging, in real time no less, all year round, but the month of May is always a particularly sensitive time. Because of my impending birthday, which draws me dangerously close to thirty, the signs of aging have become increasingly heightened.
But mostly, I’m content. I’m just…feeling really OK with myself, and if that’s what getting older is all about, then bring it on.
We can just pretend like I didn’t eat three cookies before noon, like I’m not wearing contact lenses far past what the package recommends, like I don’t have a Hello Kitty air freshener in my car, like I don’t actively watch ABC Family programming, like I didn’t spend too money on clothes this month, like I don’t pop my gum really obnoxiously in public, like I don’t say fuck in professional settings, like I didn’t accidentally wear a see through top to a financial to talk about my money, like I’m not still wearing a nose ring, and like I don’t still dream of being a soloist in the American Ballet Theater.
We can just pretend.
Come join in for more MIMP fun on Vine. Follow MeInMyPlace on Vine to catch up with your favorite MIMP Girls hanging out in their own places and get sneak peaks at upcoming shoots. Every post is guaranteed six seconds of MIMP magic.
Check out one of our first posts from Heather before she heads to the gym (which she clearly is not happy about.)
(This was back when there was never a night I didn’t feel young and pretty, and I exclusively drank vodka sodas.)
The other night I found myself in the bar at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I patiently wait for a bartender to help me order my twenty-dollar speciality cocktail. When I finally make eye contact, I lean forward, and strain my voice over the live jazz band, “A Whiskey Smash,” I say, whatever that means.
I move to a more open area around the bar to wait for my overpriced drink. I look around me because I am an absolutely insufferable people watcher. I will stare, and stare because my level of physical self-awareness is typically next to nothing. I’d care about rudeness, but I think it’s presumptuous of me to assume anybody would be paying attention to anything but themselves at any given moment. So I watch the room like it’s a mid-week movie.
I am interrupted by a voice coming from my left. “Is that your pink drink?” it asks me. I turn around to find a short, balding middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit. He’s pointing to a heavily garnished light pink concoction. My immediate thought is that, “I hate that color and I ordered a whiskey dummy. Do I look like a pink drink bitch?” But, maybe I do, and this man seems lonely, and I want to feel young and pretty.
“Ha! No, not my pink drink,” I say with a smile. I choose to be charming tonight because I want to be noticed by someone who feels lucky to have my attention. I don’t need it, but it’s easy; so I take it.
“Are you staying at the hotel?” he asks, taking a sip from his vodka soda, my signature drink at age twenty-two.
“Oh no,” I say shaking my head at the thought of ever being able to afford a night here. I shouldn’t even have bought a drink. “I live in LA. Are you staying here?”
“No. I’m staying at The Avalon. I’m from New York. The hotel I am staying at was having a function, like the one going on here, so I thought I’d get away, but..” he gestures to the loud gathering on the patio, indicating that it’s hard to find relaxation even on a week night. “Are you with the party here?”
“Yes, by proxy I am.” I ask about The Avalon, a boutique hotel that I used to pass on my commute work. I always wondered what it was like on the inside. The outside has a distinctly Southern Californian 60’s vibe. I like to imagine that Don Draper stayed there once. Sure enough, I am told that the entire hotel is retro, and I immediately want to go. It’s hard to ever leave LA when there are so many places to visit in a ten mile radius of your home.
My craft cocktail, stuffed to the brim with too much crushed ice and too little whiskey, is served, along with the bill. I tip generously on my imperfect drink because it’s a place that requires little else.
I tell him how much I’d like to see this hotel, and my love of mid-century furniture. I confide that I’ve always been drawn to that era, and wished I’d lived in the good ole days when change was possible, ideas were fresh, and dresses could twirl. He tells me that he had never thought much about the time period until it had been popularized by Urban Outfitters styled hipsters (my words, not his). I take a sip of the sweet, minty whiskey liquid. The only thing wrong with this drink is that there isn’t enough.
I ask what he does for a living and he tells me something boring that I can’t remember. It involves finance, energy, and even though I am being as bubbly as I can for a Wednesday night, I can’t be bothered to inquire further. He asks me what I do. “I work in PR,” I say, because I do now. I’m acutely aware of how much this sounds like something a young girl in the bar of the Beverly Hills Hotel would say to an older man. I’m living a cliche for fifteen minutes of the night.
We discuss different parts of LA, museums, and I tell him he has to see the Kubrick exhibit that everyone has Instagrammed a hundred times. Although it has become the most popular indie art destination in just a few short months, it really is a wonderful exhibit. I tell him that my favorite part had nothing to do with any of the films, but rather his early work as a journalistic photographer. I tell him how fascinated I was by his ability to capture moments and emotions before he was twenty-years old.
I’m nodding and smiling, smiling and nodding as I painfully map out the different neighborhoods in LA. My boyfriend unexpectedly sidles up beside me and takes the drink from my hand. He’s been on the patio shooting the shit with industry people, his least favorite activity. I had chosen to hover near the bar, rather than a group of people wondering if I was important.
He seamlessly joins the conversation about the exhibit, and introduces himself. I realize I have no idea who this older man is. We’ve not made introductions. It didn’t seem necessary,
My boyfriend politely steals me away to the party, and I don’t talk to Neil, at least I think that’s his name, for the rest of the night. I move on to meeting new people, laughing with people my own age, and making jokes about the unidentifiable appetizers in the dim lighting.
Even though I never speak to him again, I keep glancing inside at the man at the bar. His back is to me, but I can tell that he doesn’t engage with anyone else for the rest of the night. And I feel guilty for having left him. I don’t know him. I don’t know is he has a wife, kids, a job he hates. I don’t know if he’s the happiest sap on the planet. Sitting alone at a bar could be just what he wanted that night, but I still narcissistically felt like he was my responsibility for the night, and I was reckless. I suddenly feel very young, but not pleasantly youthful. I just feel silly, flighty, careless, and selfish. I don’t like it. I don’t feel young and pretty anymore.
I feel myself growing up, and know I can’t ever go back.
Ok, so it’s been a little while since I wrote about my new endeavor in working from home. I have some updates on my status: