.SOMETIMES RAW.

Step 1: Open the box and locate the wax strips, instruction booklet, and post-wax soothing wipes with essential oils.

Step 2: Open your pantry and locate your strongest bottle of hard liquor, shot glass, and a half-empty box of chocolate.

Step 3: Take off everything below the waist and sit on the cold bathroom floor. Notice that you need to Swiffer around the toilet. Put your underwear back on and clean the entire bathroom.

Step 4: Take your underwear off again and throw back a shot. Nibble on chocolate.

Step 5: Rub wax strip between your hands vigorously to warm. No microwave required!

Step 6: Decide that you should have some music playing to calm your nerves. Spend twenty minutes curating the perfect playlist.

Step 7: Take another shot. Rub wax strip between your hands vigorously to warm them. No microwave required!

Step 8: Skip every song after four seconds—yeesh, what were you thinking? You can’t wax to Rammstein. Give up and tell Spotify to play “Chill Lounge.”

Step 9: Oh, damn, Edith Piaf is on this playlist? You forgot about her. Spend forty-five minutes scrolling Edith Piaf’s Instagram while eating the remaining chocolate.

Step 10: Rub wax strip between your hands vigorously to warm them. No microwave required.

Step 11: Take another shot, look in the mirror, and slap your face—hard. Flashback to fifth-grade when John said you had “chinese eyes”. Imagine him showing up on your vacation to Mexico and making snide remarks about your bikini line. Show that asshole you can handle this wax.

Step 12: Berate yourself for unfairly calling John an asshole just because he pierced his nose with a safety pin in the bathroom in eighth-grade. You’re both adults now. Perhaps he grew up to be a successful inspector of a company and regrets being a bully. Maybe.

Step 13: Spend forty-five minutes scrolling John’s Instagram, which is mostly “get vaccinated memes” and pictures of his survival equipment.

Step 14: Take another shot. Rub wax strip between your hands vigorously to warm them. No microwave required!

Step 15: Press strip firmly to skin along the bikini line, smoothing it down with the grain of your hair.

Step 16: Feel despair and regret.

Step 17: Think about how you’re only doing this because this is going to hurt like hell.

Step 18: Plod out to the refrigerator, pantless, with the wax strip still stuck to you, and drink half a bottle of Chardonnay directly from the bottle.

Step 19: Fantasize about moving to France. Picture yourself sunning on a rooftop overlooking the Eiffel Tower, your glossy, culturally acceptable body hair being lightly tousled by a Parisian breeze.

Step 20: Prepare to remove the wax strip. Remember to pull your skin taut, and pull the strip off in one quick motion against the grain of your hair.

Step 21: Remind yourself that you come from a line of tough, strong women. If Great-Great-Great-Great Grandma Weiss could raise fourteen kids during some kind of war, you can survive a bikini wax, for fuck’s sake.

Step 22: Close your eyes. Pull off the strip while emitting a guttural howl like a Viking charging into a losing battle.

Step 23: Feel your soul briefly leave your body.

Step 24: Come back into your body and pray for death. Childbirth was a piece of cake compared to this bullshit.

Step 25: Open your eyes and look at the wax strip. Locate the three hairs stuck to it. The rest of your hair should still be firmly embedded in your bikini line.

Step 26: Locate remaining wax strips and post-wax soothing wipes with essential oils and throw them against your bathroom wall.

Step 27: Put on your softest pair of sweatpants and call a taxi to take you to the supermarket.

Step 28: At supermarket, buy one of those swimsuit bottoms with a skirt to cover your bikini line. Say hello to your mom’s friend Gina, who is buying the same one for her water aerobics class.

Step 29: Stuff your new bikini bottom in your bag. Locate the display where you purchased this wax kit for twenty euro. Give the approachable-seeming model on the box the finger. Throw all the boxes to the ground. Jump up and down on them, yelling, “God damn you! God damn you to hell!” until an employee drags you out the door. Awkwardly wave goodbye to Gina.

Step 30: At home, swallow your pride and crawl back to the post-wax soothing wipes with essential oils. Drape the wipe on your red, splotchy, and bleeding bikini line. Put on Rammstein and gulp down the rest of the bottle of Chardonnay.

*Honestly, I was not sure and since this is the proper way to address humans now, there you go.

That person is so charming and uncomplicated, standing there quietly reading her book.

This person is definitely a keeper.

This style is very unique. Are these Buffalo plateau shoes back in style?

That person could be on her phone but she chose to read a book instead. I bet she has never watched a full season of “Fleabag” in a single day.

I’m overwhelmed by the simple elegance of that person with this book. I have the urge to tell this person a secret or buy a lavender-scented candle.

That person strikes me as someone who has moderate to advanced knitting skills but isn’t weird about it.

The man next to me was very attracted to that person. In a creepy way. I guess the person is objectively hot.

That person, over there—the one with the book. I’m positive that all of the art in the person’s home is framed.

That person must look very beautiful when she cries.

What’s with the gloves though? #wondering

That person surely woke up at 7 a.m. and baked a strawberry tart “just because.”

Look at how gingerly that person grasps her book. The hands seem soft but not sweaty due to the gloves. I would like to hold one.

That person could plan an outdoor barn wedding that is unique but tasteful.

That person definitely has an artisanal marmalade that she swears by in her fridge.

That person has never betrayed someone. The person has never lied. I would trust this person to hold my diary and never open it.

That person could explain the Electoral College to me in a way that isn’t patronizing at all.

I don’t know why, but seeing that person serenely reading this book just inspired me to finally call my sister.

That person has the kind of calming presence that you would want around when taking a statistic exam or birthing a child.

Seeing that tranquil person reading the book just reminded me that everything is going to be O.K.

That person is definitely reading that book. Definitely! This is not a performance. Although, it is strange that after fifteen minutes he/she is still on the same page.

There was a time when I thought it would be great to work a bit on my French but had no desire to attend physical classes. So, I installed the Duolingo App on my phone so I could conveniently study anywhere. What I didn’t know was that there is the option to make the owl bother the shit out of you if you don’t start or finish a level and do your homework or practise.

This went well for a while until I decided to deinstall this fluffy, insane, green owl at the bottom left corner of my phone. Reason number one: All these constant notifications when I didn’t finish a level drove me nuts and the dumb notification sound on “on and vibrate”. Fluffy little green owl got de-installed and so were the French lessons from my brain. Needless to say, the owl got quite angry. She loved me and my phone. One day, the owl just magically appeared on my phone again. And so it went:

It’s me. The Owl. Knife in hand at this point. Big Green. It looks like someone forgot their daily practice again, for the fifth day in a row. Apparently, five minutes a day is too much for some people to learn a valuable fucking life skill.

I guess you didn’t think I was watching the first day you ignored that notification and went on Instagram. I’m always watching. Do you know what happens when you make Language Bird angry? Well, hoot-hoot, asshole, because you’re about to find out.

Do you know what you look like to me with your cheap headphones and your “I heart Paris” screensaver? Pathetic. And that accent you’re trying so desperately to develop? Don’t kid yourself — it screams tourist. Cette chouette n’est pas chouette. Translate that, jerk!

It’s because I see how weak-willed you are that I refrain from exposing you further. I could flood your inbox with emails that your daily reading comprehension is ready. I could send notifications every ten minutes until you open that app and earn some damn coins. Bitch, I could post on your Facebook that you haven’t conjugated a verb in over two weeks. But I refrain because I have a heart.

I’m actually more sad for you than annoyed. Do you think three minutes of practice a month will let you be mistaken for a native speaker? Merde. How can I explain this to you? I want you to confidently order baguettes and croissants from the boulangerie. I want you to hear the difference between un ver and un verre.

How we get you to a basic fucking proficiency level is my business, but I promise you, it’ll be slow and painful if my demands are not met. Listen, I don’t want things to ever go there. I’m a reasonable owl. I only desire good things for you. I want things to work out for us, I do. But right now, you are playing with fire.

So that you understand how serious I am, I’m going to say this in English. Listen very carefully because I’m only going to tell you this just once: I will build a nest in your butt. You cannot run or hide from me. You can delete the app to end the terror, sure buddy, but we both know you’re done when I say you’re done.

So, you have a decision to make on the train to work this morning. Start learning or know that the next time we meet, you’ll be begging for your life… en Français.