Lily White Syndrom

Let’s not forget there was a day when fair skin was a status symbol – just like extra large Starbucks cups or those shoes that have red soles (Sorry, I don’t speak Italian. Or French!) I can picture how different life would be had I been born in time more appreciative of my skin tone. There I am, chillaxing with Scarlett O’hara on the porch at Tara, killin’ it in my hoop skirt, milky skin all covered up like the total smoke show I am in 1860. Scarlett would be like “My lawd, Ms. Emma your skin is the color of alabastah. You could choose any gentleman in the whole county.” And I’d be like, “Oh Ms. Scarlett, how sweet and incredibly accurate you are. You really aren’t as big of a bitch as everyone thinks.”

I’d actually like to know exactly who decided being tan was the new opposite of tan. Every so often, when flipping through pictures taken from November to April, I wish I could find that person and take them out back. Of course I’m only joking – but seriously, if I couldjust find the keys to my DeLorean!

Despite my circumstances, I seldom use tanning beds. If I had a fiery, quotable grandmother who power walks she’d say, “There are two things you should do in a bed, and tanning ain’t one of ‘em! Where are my vitamins, sweet cheeks?!” And then there would be a laugh track, because this would be a primetime sitcom on TBS.

But in all honesty, the road to my occasional spray tanned lifestyle is marked by some serious growing pains. My first time was in a nail salon run completely by white people. Which as any young woman growing up in an upper middle class suburb knows is SUPER SKETCHY. All the cool girls with big knockers and drinking problems were tanning on the regular – and seeing that I was only medium cool and incredibly sober, I saw this as an opportunity to unchain the bronze goddess I knew was locked inside me.  But instead of the after school glow that I ordered, I got a crippling sunburn. So after that and a few collegiate relapses, I’m pretty much tanning bed free.

I’m happy to report that I’ve found a remedy for my lily-white syndrome that I’m comfortable with. If you haven’t tried airbrush tanning, let me tell you the return on investment is huge. I’ll keep the specifics to myself, but I’m shooting 100% on good things brought to my life under the guiding light of a spray tan. I’m serious you guys, this shit is mad dope.

As fantastic as the end result is, the process of getting there is decidedly less glamorous.  You have to get naked in front of a 17-year-old with a hemp necklace and wrinkles – it’s the worst! Before my last spray tan, I patiently waited in the lobby of Catch-A-Tan, casually shaking and chomping on free peppermints like they were Wavy Lays. Ten minutes and an embarrassing amount of clear plastic trash later, it was go time.

By the time you’re standing on a pedestal wearing basically nothing but a lunch lady hair net, it’s time to relax and go with it. You make small talk with young ginger as she wields the spray thing, you admire how professional she seems considering she is totally critiquing your figure, and then just like that– it’s over. You leave feeling sticky but at least 2 points better looking than when you showed up. Even if its expensive and only lasts a few days, when it all melts off you can tell people how tan you were last week, and how they should’ve seen it.

It's your name. Don't wear it out.

In 2014, there was an estimated 15,000 babies named Emma. But in 1987, the year I was born, Emma was kind of a unicorn name. Nobody else I knew had it except one other girl at school who I only knew because her mother was my dental hygienist. Aside from wanting to call me something fairly unusual, my mom says she had a premonition about who I would be, which is pretty amazing. I wonder if all expecting mothers feel this way. She was certain I was going to be a “whimsical child like Eloise from the Kay Thompson books,” but thought Emma had the same vibe. It does. My mom is an excellent namer of things.

Having an uncommon name was a mixed bag, and for a while I hated it. In a world of Jessica’s and Brittany’s and Ashley’s, Emma didn’t quite fit, and I didn’t see its charm. And as it turned out I wasn’t the only one. My grandma always called me Emmy, and I learned it was partly a pet name and partly a PC way to not call me Emma. On the surface that seems kind of harsh, but she was old, and rightfully had a major case of the fuck-its. For the record, my gram was very special. She could have called me “little weird face” and I would have loved her anyway.

Not liking my name prompted me to think more about what it could be. Like Stephanie Tanner, after the most complex female character on Full House, or Samantha after the American Girl doll I didn’t have but desperately wanted. 

But I wanted to name more than myself, I wanted to name everything. There was a voice inside my tiny child brain yelling, “World! Bring me all your paint chips, nail polishes, cocktails and animals and I will name them all!” I still hear her humming inside my adult brain, and that’s probably why I ended up doing what I do for a living.

As I grew older, me and Emma made peace. Partly because of Rachel’s baby on Friends, and partly because I grew to like the idea of claiming and being claimed. I like when someone you love or care about is bold enough to put their flag into you.

There’s a part in the bible that says, “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.” I don’t think that means God knew our names before our parents picked them out, because that doesn’t make sense and I don’t think he operates like a cloud-based magician. More on that later in an essay I might someday write about God. I just think naming stuff is important, okay?

My husband calls me Hoags because my last name used to be Hoaglund. On the long list of cool things in life, sharing a name with someone is towards the top, but I think it’s his way of keeping the OG Emma alive. I can’t speak for him, but it makes me feel like we’re still just dating. You know, just a couple of tipsy, budding adults meeting up for “dates” in hopes of messing around later. I think this is an A+ husband move.

Another time he called me Kitten and I loved it so much I almost lost my mind. But my husband is very thoughtful, and he doesn’t go all willy nilly with the pet names. He’ll throw out a willy, and then after a while, when the time is right, he’ll dole out a nilly. That’s why Kitten is reserved for birthday cards and special occasions. I love the anticipation of it.

In college, a dear friend started calling me Amelie. He effectively renamed me for reasons I don’t remember, but I loved the way it made me feel. To this day he calls me Ammi for short, and it’s like getting wrapped up in a blanket straight from the dryer.

Sometimes people give other people names for stupid reasons. Like to separate the veterans from the rookies. Or when you’re trying out for a sports team and some d bag calls you “dilemma” because it’s the only thing that rhymes. Or because you’re a bully. They are rarely clever and the person getting the name rarely likes it. But when they’re done well, like in the case of Kitten or Ammi, or the name your parents chose for you, it feels great to be claimed, to feel like you’re curled up and cozy even when you’re standing tall on your own two feet.

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