Another reason to love my workplace

28 Sep

A damned sizable proportion of the 25-40 segment at my workplace have no idea how to drive. The other month, a 39 year old got his p’s (probationary license and normally the domain of hotrodding teens) and we all leapt for joy. However, don’t have a bike? You stick out like Howard at a reconcilliation march.

A learner’s permit (which actually has a pretty photo) has languished in my wallet for five years. Probably longer. And, in those five years, I’ve had as many driving lessons. I don’t care for driving, though I know I’ll have to get it sooner or later, lest the Seagull falls into the expectation that a yellow car will always turn up on your doorstep whenever we head out (actually, given that groceries, pizzas, fun packages and laundry get delivered on a regular basis, she possibly already believes that all manner of manna appears at the door).

These days, I share my space with all boys. It used to be all girls (well, bar one). The shift in hormones is jarring. Your cycle goes out of whack due to lack of exposure to a dominant oestrogen exchanger, the conversations stop and, in what is most annoying of all, no one wants to put on hand cream with you. And I have nice hand cream, goddammit! Instead, there are monotone conversations about football and many, many, many pranks. In a telling example, all the lads were as enthused about my bike purchase as the lassies were about my new hair straightener.

Yesterday I escaped the testosterone with the help of the Effusive Complimenter, Purdy Jane and otheres to the rooftop. There, basting in the sun, we smoked Black Russian Sobranies (bliss) and discussed handbags. It was like HRT.

In other news, I visited my beautician the last night. There is nothing like a trip to the Beautician that brings out the failed altar girl* in you. The mere fact that I visit the beautician for anything other than a facial makes me feel like a failed lass undeserving of charitable oestrogen. You lie and get positioned in all manner of submissive poses while you’re examined with scanning eyes, a hand holding aloft a twirling paddle of hot wax.

“Have you been moisturising your legs?” Twirl, twirl, twirl.
“Yes. Uh-huh. I have.”
“mmmmmm.” Scan, scan, scan.
RIP!
wince
“Thought so. Look at all that dead skin that came off. You need to loofah and moisturise more.”
bites lip, tries not to cry.

You then spend the rest of the session apologising for wincing/giggling (told you so) through the pain and then negotiating to not get the usual ahem on your hoohoo. You then get the look of pity. Pity from the silken sadist. Is it any wonder they make you book your next appointment after a session? It’s because you’re numbed and compliant.

* Yes, I was an altar girl. A magnificently bad one. I was preoccupied with the head of Jesus in full passion/death mode that was locked in a hexagonal box. Closed: pretty box. Open: AAAH! Jesus is angry and will kill all the sinning puppies! Strangely though, they gave me school awards for my services to the church. Even though I told them I would pray to Jesus and ask him to clean my room while I had a nap (unfortunately, also a true story only slightly mitigated by the fact I was 7 at the time).

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