Inches that is. More specifically that's 8 3/4 inches lost, by me after an intense Houdini wrap and a mini facial.
Last week a coworker asked me if I wanted to go with for a body wrap. It was a special herbal concoction that would pull out all my toxins resulting in a slimmer version of my former self. If we went together we could get a free facial. Detox, facial and some girl spa time when my husband was out of town? Sure.
It didn't even matter that the whole thing sounded suspicious. Like why the promoting words were inches not pounds. Why it was for mere pennies (ok dollars, but in spa terms and cosmetics it translates to pennies). And, once we arrived, why only one door could be used, but there were three ramps and three doors. We tried every one too. Plus, she failed to tell me my measurements.
The mud mixture hailed from the great and glorious Dead Sea. The herbs were the unmentionable secret ingredient. The way I lost 8 3/4 inches? The intense mummification I endured for an hour. Spagirl wrapped me in multiple ace bandages tight enough for me to gasp. Tight enough that after I laid down for a couple of minutes I felt pins and needles pricking my foot. Then I felt my foot go numb and no amount of hitting or repositioning allowed relief or blood back to the appendage.
My mini-facial was pleasant but while trying to relax and enjoy it a sharp pain in my bound waist brought the gritty reality home. I was wrapped up in some fairly nice flowery clay by ace bandages looking like a leper of old in a decrepit mobile home. My body ached to be free and I toyed with the notion of ripping the bandages off and fleeing. It was just like turning 16 holding pliers up to my teeth trying to grasp my braces. Something had to be done.
"I'm going to get some warm towels and then I'll unwrap you."
Finally! I breathed in shallowly and twitched in anticipation.
She remeasured my various body points and happily announced the shaving of a 1/2 inch here and a full inch there until finally the inches lost totaled 8 3/4. I believe that for those two minutes I had lost those inches. I also believe that 5 minutes later when I gulped down a jug of water and took a full deep breath all 8 and 3/4 inches came back. The popping sounds in all my joints verified it.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Maid of Honor in this year's royal wedding? Pippa. Name of my first born. Not going to be Pippa. I'm expecting plenty of Pippas to pop up in the next year or two. It's a beautiful name, one I'd had my heart set on since reading a Dickens classic, Great Expectations. I fell in love with Pip and wanted one of my own. My sisters ridiculed me enough over that idea until I came up with a compromise--Pippa.
An old English nickname for Phillipa. I figured I could justify that easily enough as Philip is a family name. I'd just need to have girls and no boys. Done. A cute name fairly unknown in the States but not entirely made up, nor a medical term.
Then I ran into an old college friend at BYU graduation (I was supporting my brother Travis). She happened to be pregnant and naming her daughter Pippa.
"I know. We're crazy," she said in her southern drawl.
I laughed and assured her it was the perfect name, one I'd wanted for myself. The problem with having great taste in names is your friends will have it too. Since she was married and pregnant she got the name. I graciously told her it was beautiful. She laughed at me and said I should also use it.
I would too. Well, I would have. Now that Britain's newest next of kin to Princess Kate is named Pippa I expect a huge surge in baby girls named Pippa for 2012-2020. On the other hand I'm checking to other family names I can use...Travelina? Danielle?