The Subway, The Doctor, and The Wax (a.k.a., The Bad, The Good, and The Ugly)

Do not, I repeat, do not take the 4,5, or 6 trains during rush hours. Unless you are on your way to the dermatologist to have him look at you potentially scabies-infested arms, as I was, it is probably not worth the hassle. People are crammed into the train and you could wind up rubbing against someone with potentially scabies-infested arms. (Although it does take prolonged exposure to a person with scabies to contract them, so just hitting arms does not count. However, holding onto the same pole with arms rubbing together for 30 minutes might do the trick.) That would suck.

Any conversation that begins with “So I have this rash…” is not likely to end well. Fortunately, after I went to see the dermatologist, I learned that I do not have scabies. Whew! It makes me even happier that I did not rush out and get the insecticide medicine and smear myself with bug killer. (I’m sure some pervert out there would find that kinky – fantasy denied!) I merely have eczema as I suspected. Treatment: cool showers (sob) that are no more than three minutes long, then apply Cetaphil lotion. I love my scalding hot showers (when we were at the Dead Sea in Israel, there had a hot spring bath which Husband commented was about the temperature of my showers), but I can deal with cooler ones. (They are better for the environment, a friend told me after she saw An Inconvenient Truth.) On the other hand, my showers are generally no more than five minutes as is. Not sure how I can cut the time down. Maybe not wash my face? The cool water may encourage me to hustle anyway.

With the rash mystery solved, I went on to my next appointment of the evening yesterday. A friend is starting a career as a professional waxer and needs clients. As a favor, I agreed to let her wax my pits and lower legs. “How ‘bout a bikini wax?” she asked hopefully. “I need the practice, and you can blog about it. It’ll be great.” No, no it will not be great. Thanks, but no thanks. I mentioned the offer to Future Sister-in-Law (FSiL) and she was game, though.

I have subjected myself to waxing my legs and pits three or four times before. (Once I even had an unintended bikini wax.) Never have I chatted with my torturer, er, I mean, aesthetician about feminism, neighborhood demographic changes in Chicago, Ariel Levy, writing, Girls Gone Wild, and porn. Needless to say, it was the longest and yet least painful wax job ever. (On the other hand, she did take a picture during the process for me to use on my blog, but my ass and thighs are ginormous. Now that is painful…) If you must get waxed, I highly recommend her. Just don’t let her take a picture.