Wedding Wednesday: Wax On?

So, how many of you wax your Area? For a very long time, I was under the impression that only strippers and socialites did this, but recently it has come to my attention that this is not the case. My current approach to the Area is less “deforestation” and more “border control.” My lack of more vigorous razor-based denuding efforts is not due to philosophical objection, but rather my unsuccessful previous attempts at thorough shaving. These inevitably ended in spectacularly itchy regrowth and painful sex-with-a-brillo-pad relations with the Actually. And then there is my persistent fear of inadvertent clitorectomy.

Waxing has always intrigued me, but formerly seemed both extravagant and frightening. Obviously the presumable physical pain looms large in my mind. But even more daunting is the emotional pain–the embarrassment that must come from spreading your legs for someone who lacks a medical degree and won’t even send you flowers the next day. I tell myself that doctors are inured to the sight of vaginas, even incapable of viewing them with anything other than clinical dispassion (Note to any doctors reading: PLEASE DO NOT disabuse me of this pleasant notion), but someone who went to beauty school is bound to notice aesthetics. The only way to make it work, I assume, is to visit a new salon each time, so that you need never see the unfortunate waxer again. But there simply are not that many waxing establishments in the Twin Cities, and I imagine this would become impractical eventually. I know some people have a pet waxer, one they visit again and again, and this baffles me–how do you face someone after she has wrenched strips of hardened paraffin from your most delicate tissues?
My upcoming nuptials, with their attendant preening and primping, seem the perfect opportunity to bite the bullet (do they give you a bullet to bite, or should I bring my own?) and have myself forcibly depilated by a professional. But I need to know what to expect. So tell me. Inquiring minds, and all that.

As promised, below is our invitation, designed and printed by the lovely Krista from Papered Together. I love letterpress, and the invitations turned out better even than I had hoped. It is hard to get a good look at it here, but if you click the photo it will take you to Flickr, where you can click “all sizes” to see a bigger version:
invitation

Tomorrow night we are going to get our license. Our marriage license. I am perversely afraid they will refuse to grant me one. As far as I know, only a criminal record makes it difficult to obtain a license, but I am terrified that we will get up to the counter at the courthouse and a large, sour-looking woman (wearing a policeman’s hat in this fantasy, for some reason) will type my name into a computer and find that I have a criminal record, accumulated without my realizing it, presumably during my sleep. Obviously this is the most mature and realistic concern to have about the process of legally binding oneself to another person.
Speaking of which, a few hours ago when I reminded the Actually that tomorrow is license night, his response was “So we’ll actually be married tomorrow!”
I fear his grasp of this entire process continues to be somewhat tenuous.

P.S. Few people commented on my last post (which has me convinced that everyone thinks a letrozole IUI cannot possibly work but is simply too polite to tell me to my website) but the Actually insists I commend Pru for her wise insights in the matter of the pet crow. He would also like you to know that he intends to have TWO pigs, not one. We spent some time last night discussing names, and while we agree on Saltine for a lady pig (it sounds very fancy, “Saltine,” don’t you think?) he has flatly refused to consider my suggestion of Hammy Davis Jr. for a male. Apparently it’s “disrespectful.” I suppose that means Francis Bacon is out, as well.