Spring has sprung.  The flowers are stretching their heads up to the sun, the trees are beginning to bud, and the birds have begun to claim my car as their own personal toilet.  Everything is coming back to life.

Our yard, which slumbered on through the winter under a thick layer of dun colored leaves, is starting to re-claim its vigor with lush and plentiful shoots.  Soon enough, like this week-end, the Hubs will be outside, mower in hand, to trim things down to a more manicured state. 

Yes, yard-work is upon us and I, too, cannot escape it.  Of course, I’m referring to “yard-work”, landscaping the spaced below, if you know what I mean.  If you aren’t sure to what I’m referring, get yourself a best friend, pronto.   The weather is going to warm up. Necklines will drop.  Sleeves will disappear. Legs will be uncovered to blind one and all with their winter whiteness that rivals only a new fallen snow. Hot on the heels of that, bathing suits will be dragged out and tried on — preferably under some soft lighting — and why not take a pre-emptive strike against that painful chore?  Get in the business of welcoming warmer weather!  Get a pedicure, get a spray tan, get a wax of some kind. 

Once upon a time, I went for a bikini wax.  It was in April, about five years ago.  Once upon a time,I got an appoint at the spa for a few treatments and I learned a very painful lesson.  Never, never, EVER take the last appointment of the day.

Well, I finally finagled a babysitter and an appointment at the local spa for a brow wax and some other touch-ups. Problem was, it was the last appointment of the day because that’s when the sitter was free. Seriously, now that Yia-Yia and Pop-Pop are retired, it’s not like they have stuff to do. Why she couldn’t come before 6:30 is beyond me. I digress. The sitter arrives, I kiss the girls and am out the door, off to the spa.

After I sign up and march on up to the waiting room, I make myself cozy with some filtered lemon water from their refreshment bar. I spy various Tazo tea bags and other goodies, like some Apple Cinnamon NutriGrain bars and figure, “Hey, they’re keeping me waiting,” and filch a few (two).

My aesthetician comes in, greets me and beckons me to follow her into her room where she promptly demands that I drop trou and wrangle myself into some disposable underpants that she has left on the waxing table. She steps out of the room and I proceed to peel the plastic wrap off of these so called underpants. Can we say that calling it two tissues laced over a rubber band would be a more accurate description? Oh, and ol’ girl said that I should lie down, face up, facing the door. God forbid someone burst into the room — Hello!

Fast forward to the waxing process. I’m trying to be social, cause that’s what I do when I’m nervous and some hot wax is headed toward my skin, and I say to the waxer, “I appreciate you squeezing me into your schedule” to which she replies, as she lathers hot wax onto my bikini line,”Oh, well, you’re my last appointment of the day. After this I can go home.” And then she puts all of her 105 pounds behind it and rips off the wax. I mean RIPPED. Every follicle of hair from my head on down was like “WTF?!”

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Now, I’ve been waxed before and I know you don’t want the wax to make a home with your skin, but there is some finesse involved in the whole process. I felt like Steve Carrell and damn near yelled out “KELLY CLARKSON!” All I could think was, never again, never again will I get the last appointment of the day. This chick was on a mission to get home and get her dinner started before Grey’s Anatomy came or something. Wax, rip, wax, rip. Wax, rip, wax, rip. She even had the nerve to look put out when I asked her what I could use in case of in-grown hairs or assorted irritations. She gave me this stuff called, and I kid you not, “Get the Bump Outta Here” — which is basically what she was telling me to do, too (I will be incorporating that phraseology into my vocab as soon as I can; it’s too good to pass up).

All I know is the next time the yard needs some work, we’re going early in the day, first thing, when they’re fresh, pressed and ready to work.  Anything other than that. . .it’s too painful to imagine.