i only wear white when it rains

I knew when I dropped my scrunchie in the toilet this morning that this day was going to totally suck.

Not so much because I was staring at a hair accessory soaking in a pool of my heavily concentrated early morning urine, but because I actually still own a scrunchie. In fairness, my scrunchie usage at bedtime is a desperate attempt to tame a recent “face-framing” trim that has me waking up each morning looking like I’m auditioning for a Whitesnake video.

So it shouldn’t surprise anyone that I was more than a little annoyed when a 300-year-old woman at Starbucks thought a pre-caffeinated conversation about the wonders of the iPhone would be something I’d welcome at the ungodly hour of 8am.

Isn’t making useless small talk with a stranger before she gets her morning caffeine fix on the same rudeness caliber as elevator conversation? When elevator doors close, look the fuck down like everybody else. The same rule should apply when I’m at Slowbucks in the morning, and, despite their best efforts, the baristas cannot pull shots fast enough to shock my neurons into synapsing.

Anyway, from what I gather between rudely checking Facebook status updates and emails about all the Cybermonday deals I missed, Hagatha was observing how much easier our generation has it because we have useful tools like iPhones to help us do anything from balancing our checkbooks to removing scrunchies from our toilets. For the record, I know more about quantum physics than I do about balancing a checkbook.

But in between my lethargic nodding and apathetic smiling, I discovered something in my iPhone calendar that had me realize my convo with Hagatha might actually end up being the highlight of my day.

“Okay, lady. I’ll see you your three-mile walk in the snow to school each morning and raise you one laser hair removal session.”

Hope my singed hair follicles didn’t ruin your lunch

As noon rolled around, I sent out a warning to everyone within a 5-mile radius that the burning flesh stench in the air was just me paying $400 to get to third base with a woman pumped up with enough Restylane to stuff an oversized sleeper sofa.

World's most uncomfortable chair: a sign of what's to come

I should have known forgetting the requisite Valium was going to be a mistake when the waiting room chairs inflicted enough pain to make me stand up and look out the window like a fucking meteorologist studying the day’s weather patterns.

Since I’ve had my crotch blowtorched once before, I didn’t need to ask any questions other than if the nurse would be comfortable with me screaming assfuckingmotherbitchwhore once she started toasting my hair follicles into dormancy for a few, razor-free weeks until the next mutilation.

For those of you who have never undergone laser hair removal, you should know the party line is that the laser feels like “a rubber band snapping.” Which is true, if the rubber band was actually steel wire and attached to a wrecking ball. They’ll liken the laser to a “bee sting,” but a Bengal tiger bite seems more accurate to me.

You’ll also be amazed at what one can learn about the human body when under stress. For instance, I can run an hour on the treadmill and end up with a sweat stain the width of a quarter on my lower back. But come at my peritoneum with a laser gun? I’m sweating like Hermey the Elf right before Yukon Cornelius outs him (whatever…I’m waiting for the sequel).

Sweating and wearing the world’s ugliest panties (distracted by the scrunchtastrophe) was nothing compared to the shain (that’s a Kimonese compound word that combines “shame” with “pain”) felt when the nurse pried open my butt cheeks to access my Netherlands from a territory heretofore considered undiscovered. Suddenly, $400 seemed like a bargain for what she must struggle to unsee on a daily basis.

I'd eat that Holiday Gingerbread without any guilt whatsoever

Later, as I hobbled back to my car looking like a Kentucky Derby jockey, all I could think of was how that stick of dynamite shoved up my asshole left me feeling envious of Hagatha and her generation. Because the way I see it, she could have eaten five of those Starbucks holiday gingerbreads that were drawing me in this morning like a heat-seeking missile and just be considered pin-up curvy in her day. And while I’m getting every last pubic hair incinerated with C4, her overgrown, ungroomed bush was probably deemed sexy.

Besides, doesn’t she realize my stupid iPhone can’t even call 911 if I’m getting murdered in Target or Party City.

I’m sorry, but unless that bitch was in Auschwitz, she had it made.