I’m lucky in that I was born with olive skin. I tan pretty well. Unfortunately, when I don’t have a tan, I bear a striking resemblance to a jaundice victim. I turn a greenish yellow.
It’s not pretty, people.
Back when I was younger I used to hit up tanning beds in the winter months. This isn’t Jersey Shores GTL!!! I wasn’t going every day by any means. But I would go one to two times a month just to give me enough color to be able to kid myself that my liver was functioning properly.
As the years progressed, though, I began to realize that tanning is really bad for you. I would obsessively study my face looking for new wrinkles, crow’s feet or whatever other line that would reveal my actual age. I decided I would much rather look my stated age and be pasty white than rock a nice brown tan and be called a Cougar.
My bestest friend was getting married in the summer and we were anxiously planning her bachelorette party for the spring.
I might not know much, but I do know how to party.
This had my name written all over it. I began to scour my closet for my sluttiest shirt and realized I could not leave the house in such small clothing looking like a ghost.
I promptly decided I would try Mystic Tan. I decided to go the day before the party.
When I arrived they asked me if I had ever spray-tanned before? I had not. She walked me back to the chamber and quickly explained how it worked.
To be honest, I was only half listening. Seriously, how hard can it be? You get sprayed with some chemicals that magically turn your skin brown and likely dissolve your organs from the inside out.
It’s not rocket science.
I disrobed to my skivvies and jumped in the chamber. I scrunched my eyes up in anticipation of the spray. Ah! It was cold! When directed, I turned around so it could spray my backside as well. No tan lines. OH YEAH!
When it was over I gingerly stepped out of the chamber, but then found myself at a loss for what to do next. I was dripping wet and scared to put my clothes on, as I didn’t want them to get stained.
I stood there shivering and cold in the nude waiting for my skin to dry.
It wasn’t drying.
I then began a weird drying off dance that involved me flapping my appendages around and twisting to and fro. This was taking forever!!! Here’s to hoping they didn’t have these rooms surveilled in any way.
I finally felt dry enough to put my clothes back on and return to work. So far, I hadn’t noticed much of a difference. As the day progressed, though, my co-workers eyed me curiously. “You look…darker,” my one co-worker commented. The look on her face betrayed her to mean this was not a good thing. I ran to the bathroom to check myself out.
HOLY HELL! I was seriously orange.
We are talking Oompa Loompa orange. WTF!
I emailed a friend of mine who I know had done spray tans before to see why this was happening.
We went step by step through the “normal” process. The only difference being when she asked me, “Then afterwards did you wipe yourself down?”
Wipe myself down? What?
You mean that’s what the towel they gave me was for????
I somehow managed to completely disregard the part of the instructions where you towel off after the spray. Completely. I saw the nice, white towel and figured, “Gee. What a nice, white towel. I would hate to get that nice, white towel dirty. INSTEAD, I will just let these chemicals sink even deeper into my skin, turning me a strange shade of yellow.”
I showered multiples times. I exfoliated. None of which stopped me from being ribbed relentlessly by my friends for my orange-tinted skin the next night.
That was my first and my last experience with the spray tan.
Moral of the Story:
Listen to instructions. Especially when it involves you dying your skin with chemicals also used in warfare.
My friend is pretty pale. The pictures of us side by side were quite humorous.
Oompa Loompa Doompadee Doo
I’ve got a perfect puzzle for you
Oompa Loompa Doompadah Dee