Maybe I’m not female.

I mean, I look there and I see all the parts are right (more or less, and of course, if we are talking about sex as opposed to gender, but that is a whole different story) (also I just wrote words in that sentence without looking at the keyboard, which is a dream of mine that I will one day fulfill at a respectable number of words per minute, just like my father’s secretary when I was 9) (and that WHOLE LAST SENTENCE! Slowly. 😀 😀 😀 ). All the parts are right, yes, but there are some things that I see that feel, not right.

For example. I like boys. Most of the time. Men, even, more nowadays than before. But will I make an effort to get them to like me? Sometimes. More often than not, though, nowadays, I resort to the guy way – ie manipulation instead of seduction.

You see, I am the type of chick who if it is cold and I am going to the rave, I will be in a sweater and probably order tea. This isn’t sexy (unless you’re British or 60 years old). I’m the type of chick to just confess confess ovyo ovyo to emotions instead of playing hard to get because it takes too much energy and why play games when you could be doing valuable, fun stuff like making out? Which kills the chase. Or something. So I’m told.

Why is this manipulation? Why do you think people (most people) agonize over telling someone whether they like them or not – or even worse, someone telling them that they like them when they do not feel the same? Because then you have to think of what to say back. Human beings are programmed to reciprocate, even when they don’t feel the same. Our automatic answer to ‘thank you’ is ‘you’re welcome’ not ‘don’t ever borrow my shit again you two-faced bitch’ (which, to be fair, sometimes, it should be). Our automatic response – or rather, the response we want to get when we say those three words – is ‘I love you too.’

Not silence.
Or staring.
Or two ticks.

Because no one wants to really make people feel bad (except for sociopaths and an 8th grade math teacher – Mr. W, or he who shall not be named). And you generally want people to feel good about themselves, and feel good around you, and/or not stop loving you.
So you say it back.
So when I say ‘I really like you. We should make out.’
Usually, the response is ‘Yes!’ if they want to, or ‘uh…sure’ if they don’t. Win for me.
Woo! Tangent. So where was I?
This post is going to go on a while. I can see it coming.

I was saying I am not the type to put in effort. There are exceptions to the rule, of course (unless you’ve seen me naked, in which case it’s downhill from here. Which, again, win for me. :D) What do I define as effort?

Oh Lord. Anything that has to be done in a salon, involves heat and/or tanning beds, really short shorts, barsexuality, wax or pretense in the face of a complete lack of humour (unless I’m being a wingwoman, in which case there is social capital being obtained, mwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha).
Which brings me to today’s point.
I can’t stand spas.

Honestly, I’ve tried.
I’ve gone to a couple to rid myself of this unfeminine trait, but quite frankly, I can’t. They aren’t havens of rest and relaxation. They are places to throw money to have someone feel you up without feeling guilty about it. Ok maybe not, but still, I hate massages. It’s just painful. Can’t we X-ray wellness into me or something? Bikram yoga? Which is still quite the workout but you see it is different when it is self-inflicted and I’m sure the heat does something for you to reduce the pain, no? When someone’s little hands are trying to tear you apart tendon by tendon, how is that even remotely relaxing?
The answer is, it is not. Humans just like pain. When people feel pain, they think their remedies are working. No one trusts a sweet-tasting cough syrup or a cheap good looking watch. THAT’S WHY EVERYONE BOUGHT THE CREAMY ICKY-A-F SCOTT’S EMULSION INSTEAD OF THE ORANGE ONE. (shivers that thing was AWFUL)
And then, waxing. I…I just can’t. For why? For what? For who?
And then, last but not least…manis and pedis.

Ugh.
I mean, come on. You let someone near these delicate parts of your body with tiny little metal appliances that look like something from a dentist’s office, and it’s supposed to be a pleasant experience?
HA.
Unfortunately (until today) I forgot that I don’t like manis (OR HER LITTU FRIEEEENDS). I was talking Mi Madre on a date and decided, because Rupu told me so, that this Gel Manicure and Pedicure would be a deal. Spend a little money, spend some quality time with the one who gave me life funded by another one she gave life. Once more – winning.

We walked in and it was a bad idea from the get. The sulky staff at Maya’s Spa barely acknowledged our existence (or the appointment I had made for 11 am). It wasn’t until 11:20 that anything got going as we sat and twiddled our thumbs. Mi Madre was getting angry in like the first five minutes (I can’t wait till I am too old to care about stupid people’s emotions). She was like…um…excuse me…wtf? (but in nicer language) After we had been sitting staring at them, asking who was doing our nails, wondering out loud what the hell everyone in the store was doing sitting down, was when one of the nail guys lackadaisically walks into work late and then the other ladies start to, oh, go find the nail polishes (Colours They Use to distract you from their true, fiendish aims), oh, the gel sijui what. When you know the torture that is coming your way and then your torturers look like they don’t care about whether to use a blunt or sharp instrument, man, it does NOT inspire faith. Especially when they start joking about the weekend and using the nail file on their own hands (Big Scary Thing they use to BREAK YOU DOWN TO THEIR WILL).

It was ridiculously slow ridiculously bad service. I tweeted them as well on @mayaskenya because…um…
At the time of going to press, they have not tweeted back (and this manicure is already starting to irritate me). A couple of things irritated me, aside from them trying to feebly mend bridges with barely veiled attempts to get us to come back –
1. The guy ordered lunch and put it on the towel next to my nails. I know I have no standards, burram…
2. I was with my MOTHER, for Pete’s sake. No respect for older people? Or, you know, people? Or…you know…customers? Damn.
3. It’s a gel MANI and pedi. Not a gel MANI AND PEDI. Ha.
3. I’m supposed to go BACK to have this gel shit removed, ati, because, ati pulling it off will ruin my nail. I don’t think I’m going back. Because…wtf? And some of it is on my skin. As in? They bowl me over with their enthusiasm then trap me for more with their gel baby?

Guys, this gel is coming off by itself or not at all. Jesus will return and he’ll pick me out from the crowd coz my nails will be a-twinkiling. Like his chariot, nininini.
Yo.
Females, why? Camaaaaaan.

checks parts
still female
not loyal to spas
peace

tSN