Monday, Monday….

imageGetting up close and personal. 1st blog entry, there’ll be a post every Monday morning!

‘Monday Monday, so good to me.’ Nice song, mama’s & papa’s, wrong sentiment. I find it hard to believe that a Monday has been good to anyone. Prior to this particular Monday, I found myself agreeing to take on a job as an all male waxing therapist. This Monday morning has found me training for such a job. Say what? Monday morning, hairy man balls….this is not so good for me.

The male model, middle age, a naturist, and well, lets say at the very least, comfortable in his own skin. There is nothing attractive about this man, so it isn’t awkward, not in a jump him kind of way. If brad pit or becks walked in, these would be any ladies first choice to get up close and personal to, I think. I don’t know what I would do, blush, smile, try to 69 ’em on the couch? Back to reality. Today’s specimen is an overweight, charmlessly charming, suburban male. The thought of looking at these overweight nether regions, til lunch time, is not filling me with joy.

This is the beginning of the journey of spending a significant amount of my time pulling willies about and staring up arse holes. As close to an arse hole, as anyone is ever gonna get, some doctors and nurses, don’t even get so close to make sure every last stray hair is gone.

Dave waddles around comfortably in his birthday suit, caressing his own rotund belly, exclaiming his clichés loudly and proudly. Which does makes me feel awkward. Oh god, now I’ve got to pretend I am interested in what he is saying, and feign pleasantness. When inside I am thinking, shut the fuck up. I am here to earn a living, not to listen to your pragmatic bullshit. And so Dave continues with his not so wise words of wisdom. ‘At the end of day we’re all the same…. ‘at the end of the day, can’t come quick enough for me. I am looking forward to a moment in time where I don’t have to listen to a middle aged mans bag of shite. I would rather have his poohole in my face than listen to his drivel. I want to get a sign on my forhead STOP TALKING TO ME YOU BORING ARSEHOLE. But being english, I smile sweetly squeeze out a fake laugh, yeah yeah, I know what you mean, yep it’s true(hating myself with my sycophantic lies).

ha bloody ha…. SHHHUUUT UUPPPP!

Only way to get though this is to pretend he doesn’t exist, and do not make eye contact.

What have I let myself in for? What we go through just to earn a living, so we can infrequently treat ourselves to something nice, only to lament our stupidity until the next pay day. That’s what I do anyhoo’s.

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