This has been an odd month. And who knows? It may just be the theme for August. After a month of living like a mixer on the highest speed in July...I entered August with high hopes of some rest, being refreshed, and reorganizing. Yeah, right.
It's going to be more like trying to figure out which end is up. Pretty much like every other month of my existence. Except this month has a touch of weirdness swirled in that has had me looking around to see if I'm being "Punk'd".
A few months ago, I bought a "Sunshine Certificate" while lunching with a friend which entitled me to four services at a local spa for $50. I pretty much thought it sounded too good to be true...but apparently not. The certificate was set to expire on August 15th, so I picked up the phone and scheduled them all within two weeks because you know that the three months I had to actually use these services just didn't motivate me to dial. Knowing that the end was near (and the fact that I hate wasting money) overrode my laziness (and discomfort)...so I broke down and picked up the phone to call.
My first service was an eyebrow wax...which is normally not a bad experience...unless you've neglected to do this for a year or so. If you have...then it is quite painful. But the girl did a good job, and I moved quickly onto the second service...the "de-mullet-ication."
A recent haircut before the Ball left me with what can only be described as a mullet. Hanging lower because I didn't want a lot cut off of the bottom turned out to be a really bad idea in the world of hair. The mullet was also unhighlighted...which gave me a bizarre old-school Christina Aguilera thing going on. When the tellers were complimenting my two-tone look, and one of my high school friends said "I normally don't like hair like that, but it looks good on you..." I was like..."waiter, check please."
The mullet. No. Just no.
So I thought I'd use the haircut included in the package to transform me from looking like Billy Ray Cyrus's unfortunate older sister or something equally tragic to something resembling the real me (whatever that is).
It worked. The stylist was not only hysterical, but he actually cut it beautifully and then dried my hair so that it looked good. Most of the time when I get "styled" I end up looking like somebody's MeeMaw. And I don't mean that in a good way, either.
I am told that I have "good hair" which must mean something to hairdressers because I hear it a lot. Maybe you do too. Maybe it is just one big fabrication so that we will come back and spend a ridiculous amount of money getting "beautified" or "our hair did"...which both totally crack me up by the way. In my eyes, if good hair means that it has a mind of its own, gets big in humidity, and never looks the same two days in a row...then I have good hair. Somehow, I think not.
The following week I went for my third service - a "body elixer." This was a real step-out for me because A) Somebody was going to be touching me that I didn't know and B) There was some degree of nakedness involved. I normally can't handle either of these independently...but together? Let's just say that I considered it a growth experience. (And yes, I wore a bathing suit because I'm weird like that. I thought it was tragic enough that she got to see my cellulite.)
After exfoliating my arms and legs and rinsing it off, she pulled out this fire hose and went to blasting me with it while I was lying facedown on a table with my head through a hole in it. After I got over the initial sensation of drowning and the stress of the knowledge that I was going to look like a drowned raccoon upon completion of this service...it was quite soothing.
The next day I got a facial and nearly fell asleep as she put warm rags all over my face. I'm thinking that I'd love to have one of those rag warmer things at my house because that's really the only part of a facial that I actually enjoy. The rest of it makes my nose itch and I have to sit there forcing myself to not touch my face. I know! I'm so weird.
Last week I was in Tuscaloosa working behind the scenes at Rush parties. I know no more about how it all works now than I did before I got there, but I really did have a lot of fun with the other Moms. I also learned that I really like Jill's sorority sisters. They are truly awesome girls! The Moms were hilarious, and I realized that I have a real knack for opening (coke) bottles. Almost in a Tom Cruise in "Cocktail" kind of way. Nice to know that I am finding undiscovered skill sets at the age of 47.
Earlier in the same week, I made a name for myself with employees of Capital One and Kirkland's in two separate altercations. I would elaborate, but these weren't my finest Proverbs 31 woman moments. I was more like the chick on "Operation Repo" with the tattoos and bad dye job who probably has a pit bull somewhere in her lineage.
This week has already been off. I wouldn't be surprised to see flying monkeys in the bank lobby tomorrow. And NO, I have not been drinking. I'm just that tired.
I'm looking ahead to cooler weather, SEC football, and a return to normalcy. I'll let you know if I ever figure out exactly what "normal" is for me. I just know that it certainly isn't the month of August. Not so far anyway. I have high hopes for September, though! Bring it on.