And I also’m done pretending otherwise.
Twice an i have a ritual year. We rise to Thirty-Second Street in Manhattan’s Koreatown and go to a building that is anonymous i will be greeted by a little, stunning Russian woman who leads us to a collection of mesh disposable undies, the kind of that we hadn’t seen since slipping in some of these bad men within the maternity ward after pregnancy. No pad that is loaf-sized layer in, though, or mewling child to squish onto a nipple. No, today, in my own sheer (what’s the point) water-repellent undies, i will be directed into an igloo-shaped hot dry sauna, then a spa filled with lemons, then a cool bath bath tub high in cucumbers, then the hot wet sauna. Read more