Just pretend I am Elaine from Seinfeld.
Elaine was at the salon getting her, well, “getting the situation under control.” (Do you know what I mean? I mean, do I really have to say it? It’s swimsuit season.) Since Elaine is somewhat routine and has her favorite types of products and rarely deviates from them, so she has her favorite salon. This particular salon is a quirky one, filled with gossipy, talkative women and often, when Elaine goes to this salon for this particular procedure, she lies down in a room and the woman performing this particular procedure spends her time working on Elaine’s lower half and talking to various others in the same room while she works. This leaves Elaine to lie flat and imagine how absurd she looks, drawers pulled up to the right and then to the left and then…Anyhow, Elaine is used to the chatter and the woman does a good job and Elaine is usually able to leave after a few scant minutes of ripping and tugging and tweezing.
Today, Elaine went to the salon again, on the eve of her trip to the Pantanal where there will be swimming and horseback riding and any number of activities in which to partake. This time, however, the room Elaine went to was virtually empty. This made Elaine feel good, knowing that there would not be a virtual party around her head as she goes through this procedure. After a few minutes, the phone rang, and the woman who was working on Elaine ran to get her phone, leaving Elaine to hold her own drawers pulled over to the right and wait for the woman to return. In the meantime, the hot wax on her junk was drying and cooling and Elaine felt afraid to let go of the drawers for fear of them getting stuck to the wax and causing painfully horrific problems.
(And now is when we switch to present tense because it has to be this way.)
The woman inevitably returns, still talking on the phone. Elaine is lying in that little green concrete room, staring up at the ceiling boards, and trying her hardest not to eavesdrop on a conversation about the woman’s travel plans for the upcoming weekend. Thinking the conversation should end soon, Elaine lies patiently, her palm sweating against her drawers.
But ’tis not the case, because before Elaine knows it, the woman is tapping a set of tweezers non-chalantly against Elaine’s thigh, much like Elaine would do with a pen when she’s having a Saturday afternoon phone conversation with a friend. Often Elaine likes to make little drawings of squares and flowers while she is on the phone and she is imagining that the woman in charge of taking care of Elaine’s “business” has quite forgotten Elaine is there at all. Soon, however, while still talking on the phone, the woman proceeds to rip off the wax from Elaine’s junk with one hand and then casually attends to a few errant hairs with the tweezers. This continues for minutes and when the conversation draws to a close and the woman finally says her “Tchaus,” and “Beijos,” Elaine is mortified. Absolutely mortified.
Why? Jerry might ask. Or Kramer for that matter. Why should Elaine feel so mortified? And Elaine would say, It is completely inappropriate to carry on a cellular phone conversation mid-wax. You can’t chat and wax at the same time! You chat or you wax. You can’t do them both. If you do the chat, the wax is going to feel left out. If you do the wax, the chat is going to feel left out. Stick to the one and you can make both parties happy.
And that’s the story of that. Yet another reason I know why I can’t live here forever.