The other day, I went into an establishment that had the word “Waxing” in big, angry letters on the front. I can’t describe to you every detail of what transpired, but it involved a hefty woman with a spatula and ninja floss. I hobbled out of there, laughing at the fact that I’d done this– for the first time –in a Muslim country where bikinis are practically contraband and women are generally encouraged to wear latex frog suits.
For one entire day, I tried to listen to myself talking, recording the percentages in which I would talk about the opposite sex. My conclusion was that I’d sunk into some form of male dependency, where I’d continually seek out companionship to validate my self-worth. Sometimes I think it’s okay, it’s part of one’s wholesome enjoyment. Other times, I think it’s like having the human version of a flammable crotch– er, crutch!
I was ecstatic to find that an article I wrote (or was compelled to write) for a magazine on water issues HAD gotten published with minor edits. I don’t think it’s my best work, but I am glad to enlighten a specific group of people who read this Singaporean trade publication about water utilities in Indonesia. Personally, I would have liked to write about the people feeding fish Prozac. I am also excited to be offered a few freelance jobs here and there, if only to get me out my complacent rut.
A whole industry is built upon the idea that you can hire someone to get you naked, lay you on a bed and climb on top of you for an hour-long massage. This same industry is probably helping out the disposable-panties industry quite a lot, as well as baby-oil factories.
My old kost along Karet Pedurenan had an in-house spa, where a hairdresser who fancies herself a shaman/ expert palm-reader will regale you with tales of how your love life is going to be the epitome of crap, before she ushers you into a room where the masseuse is waiting to carve her strong thumbs into your body and — here is the part that jarred me awake — massage your breasts. I have never had a boob massage before. Neither have I tried those 24-hour take-home masseuses, described as buxomy and between 25-30 years old in the fliers.
Thankfully, our apartment complex has a pretty good, though pricey, massage place. They lend you lovely kimonos, give you ginger tea and stroke you in a very spiritually centered way that reminds you of being licked all over the body by a soothing whale tongue. I was quite pleased.
Someone stole my wallet at a Deftones concert early last month and I was rendered slightly poor for all of 22 days. During that time, I survived on sprinting to work in heels (can’t afford ballet flats) and eating ramen every single day, for breakfast and dinner. It was quite sobering, knowing I could have spent much, much, much less and saved so much, much, much more. But I need my ATM card soon.
Back in August, my Dad so keenly advised me to “program my life” in some way so I’d always have something to work toward, such as getting into grad school or going to Macau and attempting to become billionaire Stanley Ho’s fifth wife. It’s my fault that I let myself get too complacent in the parties, the fun, the mind-numbing trudging through life in general. I’ve put some dreams on hold for a while, and the festering discontent will prove too aggravating. There is merit in goals, even if it’s something insane like running after an octogenarian, truffle-buying gaming magnate.