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.