My vagina is giving me the silent treatment.  Frankly, I don’t blame her.

I went and got waxed for the first time in my life yesterday.  Now, I realize that I’m late to this particular Brazilian party, and that most girls consider this procedure a part of their hygienic routine, like brushing their teeth.

I have never been that girl.

I’m the girl who consumes a giant plate of greasy nachos, while watching an entire disk of Batman: The Animated Series.  Depending on the nacho to Batman ratio, this will be followed by me either A.) lying on the couch, feeling the nacho grease ooze out my pores, and cursing my Bad Life Choice, or B.) tying a blanket around my neck, perching on the end of the couch, looking stoic, and pouncing on my unsuspecting husband/Joker when he walks in the room.

Like I said, I’m not that girl.

But I like to challenge my comfort zone, and waxing the Batcave seemed like a great way to do just that.  I made an appointment at the nicest spa in the area (now did not seem like the time to be cheap), and I was set.  I was going to be that girl!

The day finally arrived.  Early in the morning, I accidentally bumped my elbow on the doorframe. 

“Ow!” I muttered, rubbing it.  My husband looked at me, and started to laugh. 

“If you think that hurt…”

My appointment wasn’t until 5:15 pm, which meant I had all day to dwell on the subject.  For reasons completely unknown, I started using the mantra “Brave like Batman” to get me through.  I cannot think of a single reason why Batman would get a Brazilian wax, but I am sure he would be extremely badass about it.  Moreover, it’s a lot of fun to go around using a Batman voice to say things like, “Heat up the wax, Alfred.”  Try it.  It’s fun.

And then it was time.  I was going to be that girl, dammit.  Brave like Batman.  My poor vagina never knew what was coming.  I could sense her confusion.

“Oh, hey!  What’s this warm gooey stuff?  That’s actually kinda nice.  Who’s this HOLY FUCKING CHRIST!!  JESUS!!  SHIT!!  SHIT!!  WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT??  GET ME OUT OF HERE!  GET ME OUT OF HERE!  DON’T FUCKING LIE THERE, LADY, SHE’S TRYING TO KILL ME!”

And then there was the slow realization, as she began to comprehend that we had not been pulled into a dark alley, been strapped down onto a soft table with plush towels, with gentle music playing softly in the background, and had all of the hair ripped out against our will.  I had, in fact, paid someone to do this to her.  The betrayal.  Oh, the betrayal.

And now my vagina’s not talking to me.

I’m just not that girl.  But, for a half hour, I was brave like Batman.