I chose fake n’ bake.
In an effort to have some one on one time with Mom No. 2 (my future Mother in Law), she arranged for us to have a nice leisurely, enjoyable experience at a local tanning salon.
This wasn’t my first rodeo. I’ve been tanning before, and yes, while I usually require my hand being held and step-by-step instructions on how to get in and out of the bed without injuring myself, I’ve never been one to go frequently.
Whenever the word “tanning” comes to mind, I simply cannot bring myself to throw down $15 for a tan and an additional $60 for a bottle of lotion, just so I can look like this:
I take my skin seriously (said the girl with white-out lines on her skin). I’m not a fan of closing myself in a bed – for fear of breaking the bed and burning to death. I’m not tanning bed trained and I am a liability. If someone tells me “You should do well for 8 minutes” and throws a bronzer at me, promising golden skin – I believe them.
Millions of women do this. Some are professionals. I’m a rookie. Anything claiming to make me beautiful should be a dead giveaway that I should run away fast and not look back. But I didn’t, because a quick dip in the artificial light sounded like a good time.
I took the free bronzer, my borrowed goggles and my idiot brain to my room and felt good about the fact that I too, was going to look like the 20-something blonde, at the counter, that exuded ‘high maintenance’.
I lathered up and climbed into the bed – and spent the next 8 minutes doing the robot with my arms to make sure I didn’t leave any white stripes anywhere. The first 4 minutes were very relaxing – however by minute 5, I was ready to bail.
Eight minutes in a tanning bed and I look like I spent all day on an aluminum boat with Crisco on my skin. Nothing says “sexy” like bright red skin and the inability to stand being touched.
It’s now day 3 since I baked myself, and I still cannot wear pants, shirts or take a shower without belting out obscenities.
Mom No. 2 had a much better experience than I did. Most women would. I’m the exception. If it’s “girly” and there is some “guarantee” that I’ll look gorgeous, chances are, it’s not meant for me.
I enjoy being in the sun, and I enjoy going tanning, on occasion. However I do not enjoy being the stupid girl that can’t sit down without a donut pillow because her ass is burned.
My fiancé asked me “Why didn’t you at least cover up your breasts?”
“Because I didn’t want tan lines.” You know, because I frequent the streets and my local Wal-Mart, naked.
He says to me, “Well you could have worn pasties.”
Now to a woman who looks like a 12-year old boy trapped in 33-year old’s body, pasties would not have worked. Not even the strongest of super-glues could keep them on.
While I appreciate the concern, red gingersnaps, are the least of my worries.
Should I venture into the world of tanning beds and bronzing lotions again, I will wear a bikini top and bottoms, and will more than likely ask the nice girl to limit my playtime to 5 minutes, rather than 8.
Either that, or buy a bottle of fake sun. After all, orange is the new bronze. Right?