The George Costanza of Vaginas

I was not just being facetious when I said I was off to book a bikini wax. A weekend away with a (quasi) boyfriend calls for hair removal, new lingerie from the sale rack at Bloomingdale's, and according to Nina, a trip to a sex shop.

I was worried there wouldn’t be enough time for all of my sex errands between my weekly writing deadline, working a full time job, and running 12 miles, so yesterday afternoon I knocked on Bill’s door and told him, "I’m not feeling too hot," while gingerly clutching my stomach. Yes, I lied and cut out of work early to get my hoo-ha waxed—on a scale of one to 10, how much bad career karma do you think I’ve wrought? Prostate massagers are male sex toys that were designed to stimulate the prostate gland.

Since Nina is a grad student, she had all of Wednesday afternoon free to play with me. She also needed to do something about her "wookie bush situation," as she so eloquently put it, so she booked a wax as well. Ashley had a job interview, and we planned to meet up with her at Bloomingdale's afterwards.

“Are you sure about this place?” Nina asked, with trepidation, as we sat in the bare bones waiting room with two year-old tabloids strewn about the coffee table.

I was thinking the same thing. I’d gotten a voucher off Groupon, which in hindsight…maybe not the best idea to cut corners when you’re dealing with your delicates.

"The reviews said the place itself is kind of scary-looking but that they do an amazing job,” I said, trying to sound confident, not just for Nina, but for myself.

Before either of us had a chance to back out, our “hairless technicians” appeared and led us to our respective rooms.

"Clothes here," the technician pointed to a folding chair in the corner. I wiggled out of my jeans, socks, and granny panties (laundry day) and hopped onto the table, relieved that there was a fresh sheet of paper beneath my butt.

"Everything?" The technician asked.

"Everything," I replied.

"Ok," she said, busying herself with the complicated hair removal tools on the table behind her. "Just so you know, we do things a little differently here. Our wax is specially formulated to form a mold. We remove it in one go. Any questions?"

One million. "Do I get to keep the wax mold of my vagina?"

The technician did not look amused as she bent over me and applied the wax.

Despite her brusque bedside manner, the wax was over and done with before I could yelp "Kelly Clarkson" like Steve Carell in The Forty-Year Old Virgin. I got dressed and returned to the waiting room. No sign of Nina, but I figured she’d be out any minute. I helped myself to a 2011 issue of Us Weekly.

Five minutes passed. Then 10. Finally, Nina appeared, looking pale as a ghost.

"Oh, come on," I said. "It wasn’t that bad."

"Let’s go," Nina barked.

"We have to pay!" I said.

Nina shook her head. "No, we don’t."

I looked at the receptionist—Nina’s "hairless technician" was whispering into her ear. “Nope, this one’s on us!" The receptionist chirped. "Come back soon!"

"What is going on?" I whispered to Nina as I followed her out and into the stairwell. Nina refused to answer me until we were standing on the street.

"It wouldn’t. Come. Off." She hissed.

"What wouldn't come off? The hair?"

"The mold." Nina used air quotes around the word, mold.

I covered my mouth with my hand, horrified. "How did she...is it still on you?"

"No!" Nina said. "They had to chip it off with a hammer."

"They?"

"Your girl, hair technician, whatever bullshit they called themselves, was called in for back up."

"Ohmigod."

"Jos, I thought I was going to have to go to the ER with a wax mold stuck to my vagina!"

I started laughing and couldn’t stop. I bent over and placed my hands on my knees.

Nina finally started to laugh too. "I hate you."

"Did it at least…work?" I gasp-laughed.

"No!" Nina was laughing so hard she was crying. "I look like George Costanza down there. Some bald patches, some strays. It’s a damn mess."

"Stop. I’m going to pee my pants."

Once we’d composed ourselves, we realized we were late to meet Ashley. By the time we found Ashley in the lingerie department of Bloomingdale's, we were fifteen minutes late and she did not look happy.

"I’ve been texting you guys," she snapped.

"Sorry," I said. "You’re never going to believe what happened."

Nina could barely contain herself as she started to fill Ashley in, but it quickly became apparent that Ashley was not amused.

"That’s great," Ashley said, sarcastically. "Why don't you guys just have your little adventures in the city and I’ll leave you to it." Her coat was slung over her shoulder, but now she shrugged it on.

"Wait, Ash, what are you doing?” I asked.

"You didn’t even ask me how my interview went."

"We just got here!" Nina said. "I was just explaining why we were late, and then obviously we were going to ask you."

"It was shit," Ashley’s eyes were watery. "I blew it."

"I’m sorry." I reached out to rub her shoulder but she recoiled from me.

"It’s fine. I’m just so stressed out. I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea to come here."

"Do you want to just go grab food somewhere?" Nina asked.

"I can’t afford it," Ashley said.

"Our treat!" I said.

"Please. No charity," Ashley muttered. "I just want to go home and crawl into bed. I’ll see you guys later." She looked at me. “"Have fun this weekend."

I don’t think I realized until that moment how bad things really are with Ashley right now. I have no idea what to do or how to help her, or even if I should help her. Some people just prefer to work things out on their own…I never thought Ashley was one of those people, but she’s also never been under this kind of duress before.

I feel a little selfish that I’m so excited for my weekend away with Justin when one of my best friends is having such a tough time with life right now. But I’m only human! And my hair-free, 65-percent-off-La Perla-lingerie-wearing self honestly just can’t wait.