because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Saturday, 2 June 2012

This is a story that begins with my vagina.



Last Friday, before I left Rome for a month to work a job as a teacher trainer on the Italian Riviera, I got a wax.

You’ll remember I told you, Internet, that June is generally a month of debauchery for me- what with the sun, and the sea, and the weekly influx of cutie patooties from around the globe. Their various accents mean that as they arrive at the train station- wide eyed and looking for any help they can get to orient themselves in this new-found land of Teaching English as a Foreign Language- I, as their orientation leader, must orientate them mainly to the direction of my vagina because SOUTH AFRICA? I DON’T HAVE THAT FLAG YET.

Except, not this June, because of all the celibacy.

Except, well, maybe I’ll get a wax just in case, because what if I really need to break my personal code of conduct just this one time?

EXCEPT, well, I need a wax anyway because we’ll be at the beach and stuff so. Yeah. What? I’m not going to get to myself into trouble except MOUTH! SHUT UP SHUT SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!

The point of me telling you I got waxed Friday is because I want to share some advice you. That advice is this:

DO NOT GET ALL OF YOUR PUBIC RIPPED OUT BY THE ROOT AND THEN SIT ON AN OVERNIGHT TRAIN IN SPANDEX PANTS.

I got to Sanremo Saturday morning and MY VAGINA. WAS. ON. FIRE.

Also, I had travelled in new trainers which rubbed the back of my feet, which meant my ankles were bleeding, and so I walked with a bit of a limp, simultaneously trying to avoid the tops of my thighs touching and my shoes making contact with my seeping sores as I moved my life in two suitcases to live in a hotel for a month. 

I rocked up to a ten a.m. meeting right off of that train, and was like hey guys! Wassup! Anyone got a little moisturiser for a burning pussy? What about something for the puss leaking from my feet? Great. GOOD TALK.

Unrelated: every single person in that meeting had a piece of fruit drawn on their forearm, and every single piece of fruit was wearing a hat.

Totally related: I love the people I work with.

AND THEN.

And then, as we prepared for the first day of How to be An English Teacher Orientation, I fell over and sprained my ankle. That story pretty much goes:
Boss: Laura, follow me. We need to go pack the van with water and fruit for break time.
Me: Ok!
Boss: Where is the light switch for the storeroom?
Me: Oh. You have to go down the stairs in the dark and then switch it on at the bottom. Follow me.
As we walk down the stairs in the dark…
Boss: This is ridiculous. Somebody is going to get hurt. You can’t walk down stairs in the dark, where’s the fucking light switch?
Me: OH! MY NAME IS BOSSMAN AND I CAN’T WALK DOWN STAIRS IN THE DARK! I NEED A LIGHT TO PUT ON FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER! OH! WALKING IS SO HARD BLAHBLAHBLAH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

And then I tumbled down half a dozen steps, landing on my front, hit my ankle as I hit the floor, and then went so white and pale from the shock that I wanted to throw up. Internet, I have really weak ankles you know. It’s from an old netball injury that happened against St. Benedict’s School in 1998. I’m sensitive.

My boss just stood there in the dark, told me divine intervention had played its part, and then he found the light switch, and told me to grow a pair and get to the heavy lifting. And I was so in shock that I did, and continued to soldier through the day because nobody took an injury undertaken in such a comedic fashion seriously, and then by midnight it had swollen to the size of a tennis ball and I had a cankle.

I felt really sorry for myself.

And so, by Monday night, I attempted to treat all of my symptoms. I had a tub of cold Nivea on my burned vagina. Yes, I’m entirely certain is what heaven must feel like. The thing is, though, I know you gotta let your clam breath in times like this, so I had to wear my sexy nightie to allow things to, you know, AIR OUT. I couldn’t close in all the healing cold air by wearing my pyjama pants, so I had to rock my little baby doll black silk number which I’d packed knowing that I DEFINITELY WON’T HAVE SEX THIS MONTH EXCEPT MAYBE I WILL BUT NOT IF MY BOSS SEES THIS.

So I had on my sexy-nightie-that-let’s-my-minge breath, Nivea spread like butter on my hairless lady garden, band-aids on my ankles, and my foot elevated above knee level to help the swelling in my ankle. I had an ice pack, and a bandage, and since my roommate for the week was on the phone, I also had cotton wool in my ears and my eye mask on to block out the light and so in conclusion?

I basically felt like Elizabeth Taylor before she died.

And that’s how Life After Rome began. 

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