Waxing

For those of you who may think this post may be about waxing as used in the phrase “waxing and waning” or that I am going to "wax poetic", I am sorry to disappoint you.  For this post is about the removal of unwanted body hair.

There are 3 things that I really loathe: shaving my legs, washing my hair, and making my bed with new sheets.  But I love being smooth-legged, I know that washing my hair is a social norm I must adhere to for hygienic purposes, and there is nothing better than climbing into a freshly-made bed.  So I carry on.

However, in India, it turns out that most ladies wax their arms and legs.   My trainer has been making fun of me for not since I got here.  I tried to explain to her that it’s something we don’t do in the U.S. (except, perhaps, for very, very special occasions) – probably for the pain factor as well as the fact that it costs an arm and a leg (no pun intended), but her nagging didn’t stop.  Why did she nag?  Because I’m lazy and I despise shaving my legs, so I always showed up to the gym with some stubble. 

Why didn't I wax?  Because, to be honest, going to a salon in a "third world" country is still somewhat sketchy to me.  I’m sorry, but it is; I'm just being honest.  I’ve also been hesitant because I know that waxing hurts.  In addition, contrary to popular belief, I also have some standards of hygiene and, to me, the thought of growing my leg hair to a length where it could be waxed was disgusting.  Not to mention hot, especially because it was becoming summer in Bangalore and if I had hairy legs I knew I would restrict myself to wearing pants.  But my hatred of shaving won out, I was recommended a parlour, and it was time to grow.  My apologies to my poor colleague, because about once a week I would lift my pant leg and ask, “Is it long enough yet?”

But in the month and a half that it took (ewwww), I realized something.  My showers were so much quicker without having to shave.  And I didn’t abhor washing my hair as much as usual, because I hadn’t spent the time and energy shaving (I know, my life is so rough).  I could only look forward to the happiness this would bring when I didn’t have hairy legs.

Finally, it was time.  Privacy at this beauty parlour is something that isn’t really considered; but, then again, in my experience privacy isn’t generally considered in India as a whole**, and I’ve become used to it.  They ask me to disrobe, hand me a gunnysack-type-garment to wrap around myself, and leave with the door open, going in and out as I do so.  Not that the garment did much, because they shift it about at will as they wax my legs and underarms (Yes, I do the underarms too.  It’s so freeing.).

My first visit, they chided me for shaving.  I tried to explain that it’s what we do in the U.S., but the tongue-clucking told me that that is not a good excuse.  And yes, it hurt.  Like the dickens.  Sometimes I found myself gripping the table for dear life.  I have two ladies working on me, which makes me feel kind of pampered.  It is also the basis for the lie I tell myself – and try to believe - that having the pain spread out decreases the suffering.  It’s still torturous; perhaps moreso, because I never know if the ripping is going to come from the right or left leg.  But when I went to pay the bill and found out that I was paying $6/leg and 50 cents per pit, I knew this was something I wasn’t going to stop.  No pain, no gain, right?  If/when I move back to the U.S., I am going to have to devote a large percentage of my salary to upkeep of this new habit. 

Plus, my trainer was proud, so it’s totally worth it.

I went back for the second time today.  I think my aesthetician wants to rid me of every hair on my body…She strokes my arms, begging me to let her wax them.  I say no, and she counters with “Just up to the elbow?”  I laugh, and refuse, telling her that I really like my arm hair.  She thinks I have an unhealthy attachment.

They congratulated me on how little of my leg hair had grown back after only one time waxing.  Clearly I don’t have much to do with this…but, of course, I accept their praise anyway :)  It’s good to know my hair is behaving…and I’m also clinging to their statement that “Maybe it will eventually stop growing.”  How glorious would that be?

** A reader has mentioned to me that this comment regarding privacy in India portrays that I have the perception that Indians possess an inability to value privacy.  Please note that this is not the intention; rather, when I wrote this comment I was considering the open door and people walking in and out of the room during this and other visits to the parlour, doctors appointments with doors ajar and random visitors while I was being examined, full-body massages that massage parts of me never before touched after which I have shared the shower with complete strangers while other complete strangers have washed me up and down, in and out.  Perhaps it would have been more apt to say that in India I have experienced a different standard of privacy as it relates to the human body, and I apologize if it has seems that I have made a generalization of the way that Indians as a whole value privacy, or that I have judged Indians as possessing an inability to value privacy.  The purpose of this post was not to complain, but to share my experience of waxing.

Easter Eve

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. 

And I think I have just decided that I am not going to church.

The church I go to doesn’t celebrate Christmas or Easter.  I’ve been planning on going tomorrow, but I’ve been planning to go more or less to hear why they don’t celebrate Easter.  To see if they judge the rest of Christian culture for celebrating.

But if I’m really honest with myself, I don’t want to spend my Easter Sunday like that.  I don’t want to spend my Easter Sunday with a critical spirit, and I don’t want to spend Easter Sunday without celebrating Jesus’ resurrection, His new life, and the new life that He offers to me and you, the redemption of creation and relationships. 

Yes, Easter may be the Christian conversion of a pagan holiday.  And yes, the name Easter is likely derived from the name of the ancient goddess of spring.  And no, nowhere in Scripture are we instructed to celebrate Christ’s resurrection one day out of the year; if anything, we are instructed not to base our faith on religious holidays (Galatians 4:8-10) as so many other religions do.

But my faith isn’t based upon the holiday; rather, the holiday provides the space to intentionally reflect upon my faith.  And while, yes, perhaps every day should be lived in thankfulness of Christ’s work on the cross and in celebration of God’s power that raised Him from the dead, it physically hurts to think of spending Easter Sunday in church without consciously celebrating what that means for us and for our world.  My heart pains imagining greeting my fellow churchgoers without being reciprocated a “He is risen indeed!”

So, while most Christians flock to church tomorrow, I think I will stay home and embrace the space that Easter offers.  Because Christ is Risen – He is Risen Indeed!

To Honor and Cherish

I saw the most beautiful love today.

It came as somewhat an answer to prayer, and the why of that is difficult to explain; even to myself.  But I know that it wasn’t an accident that it happened.

I tumbled off the bus at Byrathi Cross and dodged a few bikes on my way across the street.  My main goal was to walk as quickly as possible so that I could refill my water bottle when I got to my final destination; it was a scorcher today and I was already running low.  As I walked towards the archway, I heard my name.

This isn’t necessarily surprising, since I used to live in this neighborhood, but I rarely see anyone I know this time of day in Kothanur and it’s rare for people to call my name.  I looked around, and there at the shop where I once bought bananas were Chitra and Mahadevia.

Chitra and Mahadevia work for the director of my old NGO; she’s their housekeeper and he does groundswork as well as pt security at the NGO.  I’m not sure how old they are, but their oldest daughter is just finishing the equivalent of 12^th grade; I suppose this means Chitra could be as young as 36.  Mahadevia is older, though, and graying throughout the temples.  Chitra and I are best friends.  I’m not sure why, because I rarely see her (except, recently, when I’ve been tumbling off of buses), but each time I see her she grips me in the tightest hug I’ve ever experienced; it’s as if she’s clinging for her life and she won’t let go.  And I never want to let her go, because she makes me feel extremely safe and extremely loved.  Today I just about ran into those arms I was so thankful to see them.

Come to think of it, the last time they saw me was tumbling off a bus about a month ago, lost and confused only to have them help me get my bearings.  Today, I admit I shed a few tears on the bus and needed to be taken care of just a little bit…Chitra and Mahadevia did just that.  Hmmm…maybe they’re my angels.

On to the love story.

Mahindra bought me a milkshake (although I insisted that I didn’t need anything) and the three of us stood and chatted.  Luckily for you, I don’t remember the conversation verbatim or this post would go on forever.  Luckily for me, the fact that I don’t remember our conversation verbatim means that a lot of it took place in Kannada.  Nanage kannada sulpa baruttidenne (Kannada is coming to me, little by little).  We just chatted – about family, about work, about India, about food.  He invited me to cook chicken so that he could eat it, and I laughed and told him that I don’t know how; in India I cook only vegetarian.  He told me that Chitra would teach me, to which she readily agreed. 

Then he professed: She is my mother, my sister, my grandmother, my wife, and my friend.  In India, I need only one person.  And it is Chitra.

The way he looked at her was incredibly endearing.  And the way she reacted – the blush, downcast eyes, beaming smile, showed that she knows he loved her deeply.  I paid more attention to them for the rest of our time together – the second milkshake that Chitra downed because I honestly couldn’t eat anymore, the walk down the road, the auto drive.  They finish each other’s sentences – him hers when she lacks the English, her his to offer correct information or joking reprimands.  When she speaks, he listens as if she’s the queen herself.  When he speaks, she smiles, and her eyes reveal that she believes there is truth and security in every word he speaks.  And when he makes a joke, she looks at him with eyes that say, “You really aren’t funny but I love you so much I can’t help but smile, because you think you’re funny and you’re trying really hard”. 

Their romance wasn’t overt or sappy; it was solid and full of respect and admiration.  They honor and cherish each other.  When I got out of that auto, all I could think was “Wow, those two are really in love.”  And, strangely, being with two so deeply in love made me feel deeply loved, too.

I Feel Old

I know I’m too young to say this, but sometimes there are moments where I forget that I’m not 17 anymore.  And when the reality of my 25 years of age hits me, it’s really quite sad.

In the moment, I don’t think “Wow I feel like I’m 17” (or 19, or 23 – all numbers that were great ages and that I sometimes feel I will always be).  Rather, it’s in the midst of the moment that I realize I am 25.  And it’s when I remember that I’m 25 that I remember that I’m not 17 anymore.

I’m not in high school, I’m not in college.  I have to be responsible.  I can’t play all the time. Nobody is around to take care of me.  I have to make good decisions. 

Actually, I was always responsible.  I rarely played.  And I have always made good decisions.  Perhaps it is in moments like these that the sadness I feel is more of a mourning – a mourning of the irresponsibility I didn’t permitted myself, the playtime I didn’t have, the independence I asserted, the bad choices I never allowed myself to make.

I can’t think of a concrete example that has spurred this feeling, but it has happened several times in the past couple weeks.   It’s kind of a small burden that sets itself upon me and says, “You’re 25, Jen.  You have responsibilities.  People look up to you.  You have to take care of yourself; others won’t take care of you.  You can have fun, be lighthearted for a moment, but life is serious now.” 

You’re a grown up.

My cute grandma is upwards of 75 years old.  Last spring, as she jumped onto the back of a moving golf cart, she rolled into me, laughing, and said, “Sometimes, I just pretend to be old.”  I will never forget this, and every time I think of it, I smile.  Let me be always young at heart. 

A Little 'bout Love

Every time I'm with the girls, I find myself thinking about love.  What it means, how it's manifested, and - ultimately - overwhelmed with the selfless love I receive from them.  Filled with thankfulness that I am in a place where I can love them back.  Inspired by their dreams, humbled by their honesties.  Many of them are facing changes - please keep them in your prayers. There are a lot more thoughts where these came from, but they are still simmering.  For now, the blog will be brief.  In the meantime, let this image bring a smile to your face: every time I visit, at least 2 of them RUN to meet me the minute they spot me walking through the ragi field.  They run as if they haven't seen me for years...but I just visited last week.

Thanking my Pride

“We have a run on March 4, Jeni.  It is not compulsory, but I am telling you that you must do it.”  That was the primary trainer at the gym on February 15.  I hadn’t been to the gym for 2 ½ weeks.  I hadn’t run since June.  I explained this and asked if she thought I could. “yes, yes, you have been quite regular here, you can.”  Hm.  Thanks Sumitra, but 5 minutes on the bike, circuit training and toning are hardly comparable to running 3 miles.

The next day Raji asked if I was running.  I said yes (because I have no excuse not to), and she asked which.  I said the 5k.  She told me I couldn’t. Which means of course that the 5k is the race I signed up for....I love the challenge of doing things people tell me I can't do.

Pride got me into it.

Pride kept me in it – I started running alternate days at the park before going to the gym for toning. I had to report to Raji how many minutes I ran and show her my watch to prove it. (I did catch her bragging that I had doubled my time in just a week; it's nice to know she's proud of me).
Runs 1, 2, and 3 I was in awe at how God has created my body to move, to breathe, to circulate blood, to be pushed beyond what the mind thinks it is capable of.  I found myself very thankful - both to my pride for getting me into this mess, and God for giving me a body that allows me to run.

Runs 4, 5, and 6 (aka the week of the race) I started kicking my pride because I absolutely didn’t feel prepared at all.  But I had to complete – I had to finish, and I had to prove that I could.

Today was the 5k.  Pride made me run the whole entire time.  The gym staff were stationed along the race route, but I had no idea where my trainers were.  Therefore I ran out of fear that they would see me walking.   Not to mention I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it – me, Jen, who loathed running the mile in middle school and was always one of the last to cross the finish line.  Here I was, running for fun.

I have always wanted to be a runner; always wanted to run a race.  But I was never forced to.  Strangely, now I find myself thanking my pride instead of kicking it.  And on Tuesday morning I will be at the park again, and not I have to follow through on a commitment I made out of pride.  Because I like it.

Olympic Runners

This morning I went for a walk around my neighbourhood.  Tomorrow is my 5k so I didn't want to work out, but I also didn't want to let my muscles lie dormant.  The sun was rising, and one of my absolute favorite things about morning in India is the way the new sun shines through the dust.

As I was smiling about that, I tripped.  I believe I have mentioned it before, but Bangalore isn't exactly a pedestrian-friendly city.

This got me thinking about Olympic runners.  I always love the short biographical documentaries that they make about the "hopefuls", the "underdogs", and the "bests".  The ones of runners from Africa are always so serene and inspirational; may fave is always the aerial shot of the runner taking beautifully long strides down a dirt road with nothing else in sight.

I laughed out loud.  I would love - LOVE - to see a short doc about a runner born and brought up in Bangalore (or any other "developing" city with a population of multimillion, at that).  It would start with the new morning sun shining through the dusty air and gleaming on the colorful buildings.  And then show the Olympic hopeful dodging uneven bricks and jumping over holes in the sidewalk that leave the open sewer a dangerous variable to your morning run.  The arial view would zoom out slowly - first, the runner.  Then, a dog will start to bark.  and chase him/her.  another dog would join.  and another. and another.  Two old men would walk by, arms in mountain pose, as they do their morning yoga walks.  The woman sweeping the street doesn't even look up as the runner passes by, and s/he gets a faceful of garbage-filled dirt.  A bike comes out of nowhere and the runner has to jumps out of the way to avoid getting hit.  An auto was on the other side of the bike, and honks loudly, swerving in the exact same direction as the runner, who then has to dead halt to avoid another deathly collision.  It would be even better if the auto was on its morning school route, which means that there are about 14 children inside and the runner is kind enough to stop to pick up the books that they dropped as a result of the swerve.

Wow.  It sounds more like a video game than a biographical short.  And I'm getting tired just thinking about it...but I'm smiling big.  Please, India, bring some city-runners to the Olympics.  I want to watch the story of their runs. In fact, I would probably find them more inspirational than the peaceful and reflective films from the plains of Africa.  If someone can become an Olympian by running through Bangalore, there's hope for us all.