I was caught at a weak moment and I thought it could possibly the most painful decision of my life.
Last spring I made a bold offer; an offer I really believed had little chance of coming to fruition.
I was all too wrong and last week I had to pay the piper or more accurately the spa lady.
I know, if my punishment was a day at the spa how could I possibly complain about that or equate that being painful?
You see, last spring when we were fundraising for the Foothills-Okotoks Regional Field House I was looking for a unique way to create some buzz. As part of the 24-hour soccerthon I pledged if my team raised more than $5,000 I would agree to wax my back.
The fundraiser was a great success, but it looked as though my team came up a bit short of our fundraising goal. We came close thanks to some incredible support, but it looked as though my back would be unscathed. Disaster and a lot of pain had been averted.
However, it seems people did not forget my little wager and in the weeks after the soccerthon the thermometer on my team’s website continued to steadily climb until about a month ago my wife gave me “The Call.”
There was no salutation, no small talk, no beating around the bush. She simply said she made the appointment to get my back waxed, Oct. 2 at 10 a.m. and hung up.
It was almost surreal. I had no opportunity to rebuff, to chance to weasel my out.
I simply wrote on my calendar, “Hell, 10 a.m.” and prayed.
In the days leading up to the appointment I started searching for ways out or at least ways to make my nightmares cease. It could not possibly be as bad as people say, right? After all, people actually have this done, on purpose.
Each person I asked said having one’s back waxed was excruciating, unbelievable pain.
Why do we put ourselves through this and why did I not keep my big mouth shut?
Finally, last Wednesday the alert popped up on my phone. “Hell, 10 a.m.”
My wife called for I thought would be some encouragement, or maybe even tell me it was a bad joke. Instead she told me to take a couple of painkillers because it would help.
Boy, my anxiety just washed away with her soothing words.
So, I took three Advil and made the drive to the home spa.
When I arrived I scoffed at the room all done up with pillows, soft blankets and quiet music — nice attempt to camouflage the torture chamber.
Again, I expected some assurance from the cosmetologist this was not going to be painful.
Her bedside manner could use some tweaking. She said this could really hurt and if she draws blood it means she has killed the hair follicle. To be honest all I really heard was hurt, blood and kill.
She spread some warm wax on my shoulder and I drove my head into the pillow and held my breath. I may have asked for my mommy.
I was at a crossroads. I thought if I chickened out I would be ridiculed for days. Then it hit me, would I be mocked more for running out of the spa shirtless, screaming like a scared kid, but with back in tact. Or, would I be more the butt of my friends’ jokes if I actually had my back waxed like some metrosexual yuppie?
I liked the response which meant I could avoid the pain. I started to push myself up and make for the door when I heard it. Like the zip of a Velcro strap, she peeled the first row of hair off my back.
Almost stunned it happened so quickly with clenched teeth I waited for the pain.
Surprisingly, it never arrived.
Slowly, thinking it was a trick I reluctantly laid back down on the table.
She asked me if I was okay and I simply asked is that it? In the immortal words of the wise Rocky Balboa, “It ain’t so bad.”
It was relatively painless and over in literally five minutes.
You know, I may even do it again, but no rush.
Oh, and yes it does feel like a baby’s bum. You can rub my back if you want, but it costs $5 and it goes to the field house.
