First, let me start off by saying - HELLO!
Ohhh, and HAPPY 2012!
I have missed writing, so it feels great to get back to it!
"Why the weeks of silence on the blog?" you may be asking. . .
Well, Hubby and I enjoyed three packed weeks of Holiday fabulousness in the States.
We saw family, we enjoyed friends, we packed on a few pounds/kilos, we rang in the new year, and of course as often as we could, we snuggled "JJ" (that adorable new little nephew of ours).
We loved every minute.
We needed the trip.
It exhausted us.
We slept for 12-straight-hours once we got back to Serbia.
We are happy to be home.
Before I get into Holiday reminiscing, I have an embarrassing story to share.
I apologize ahead of time if this makes you blush.
I did more than blush.
I almost died!
So please, share in my embarrassment.
Have a good laugh at my expense.
It's fine. . . I expect you to be laughing at the end of this post.
About a week before we left for the States, I thought it would be a good idea to pamper myself. You know, because I work so hard here. (That was a joke.) As I've mentioned before, the women here are stunning, but beauty and lots of upkeep go hand-in-hand. Salons abound! Everything from facials, nail art, aromatherapy, massages, hair color . . . you name it, you can find it in Serbia. There are so many options that I was lost trying to pick a salon. I got a recommendation from a sweet friend on where to go for a bikini wax. I was not planning a tropical get away over the Holidays, I just wanted to compare the treatment in Serbia to similar treatments I had had in the States.
On the day of my appointment, I walked to the salon and met my esthetician for the first time. She was a nice middle-aged-motherly-type woman who immediately invited me into the room and closed the door behind me. We had set up the appointment over text message, and I had even texted in Serbian; so, I was shocked when she addressed me in English. I spoke in broken Serbian and her in broken English, and we seemed to manage. As she cleaned the bed and put down a thin piece of tissue paper over the area where I would sit/lay, she told me to de-robe. I did and then I sat down, bracing myself for the pain. And, man, was it ever painful!
WOW! That HURTS!
I tried not to let the pain register on my face.
Is this how much it hurt last time? I thought to myself. When the esthetician asked how I was doing, I squeaked out a pitiful, "ohh, I am great. I had this done not too long ago, so I am used to the pain." That was sort of a lie. While I had gotten a wax before our wedding, I was nowhere near ready for the intense pain. She kept trying to make small conversation, but all I could think of was the burning, tearing, ripping sensation between my legs.
I started sweating.
The turtle-neck sweater I was wearing didn't help.
Maybe she couldn't tell.
Here is where the embarrassment really came. Remember we are dealing with a language barrier and a foreign culture.
She kept waxing away, and suddenly she stopped and looked at me. "Lana, I know you are in a lot of pain, and this would be a lot easier if you were not so wet down there."
WHAT DID SHE JUST SAY?
NO - I must have heard her incorrectly. . . .
Nope, she really said that out loud.
I was embarrassed.
I turned bright red.
I about died.
I wanted to slip off the table and dissapear into a pool of my own sweat.
Suddenly I realized that I was not just sweating under my arms, but I was sweating all over from the pain. What she meant (and she couldn't say because of the language barrier) was that my skin was sweaty and that was the problem. I relaxed a little until I sat up and took the thin piece of tissue paper with me. It was stuck to my sweaty back. The esthetician just let out a startled "ohhhh my!!!"
It was FINALLY over.
I put my clothes on and paid quickly.
As I scurried out of the salon I asked myself if I would ever go back. . .
I don't know if I can face anyone in there again. . .
Maybe next time without a turtle-neck.
Ohhhh, and it only cost me about $6.50, so compared to the $60 I paid in Oregon, it may be worth the pain and embarrassment of going back.
I wonder what her nickname is for me?
The sweaty American?
Go ahead and laugh! I am sure it will not be my last embarrassing moment.