Have you ever noticed that there are several words in the
English language that are harmless on their own, but when put
together, they take on a much more sinister meaning? Take, for
instance,
”
airline food
”
or
”
bikini wax.
”
Have you ever noticed that there are several words in the English language that are harmless on their own, but when put together, they take on a much more sinister meaning? Take, for instance, “airline food” or “bikini wax.” But believe me, as scary as these sound, nothing can strike more terror into a person’s heart than the words “self-tanning lotion.”
Now before you start yelling at me that self-tanning lotion is better than lying out the sun, or that I shouldn’t be so superficial that I need to fake a tan, in theory, I agree. I’ve read the statistics, and I’m in no way advocate jeopardizing good health for something as shallow as, well, physical appearance. But, face it, there’s a certain mystique that goes along with having a deep, bronze tan. It’s as if, instead of driving the swim team carpool, you’ve been away vacationing at an exotic resort where you lounged on the beach and were served frozen margaritas by Fabio-like cabana boys. And not only that, but it’s an established fact that tans make you look thinner. THINNER. So you can see why I had no choice but to try a bottle of instant self-tanning lotion.
And, really, how hard could it be? You’d think that all you have to do is pour the lotion into your hand, slather it on and Viola! But wait, not so fast. For those of you lucky enough to have never tried this before, let me just tell you that self-tanning is a delicate process much like splitting plutonium atoms or balancing nuclear particles on the pointy end of a pencil.
In fact, it reminded me of the time I tried coloring my own hair blond with “sassy” highlights. Let me just say that to this day I’m not sure what happened. All I know is that somewhere between mixing, applying and rinsing something went horribly wrong, and instead of looking like a 20-something “Baywatch” babe, I looked more like our cat, whose fur is neither blond nor sassy, but more of a solid brassy orange.
But I digress. As for the lotion, in all fairness, the words “wash your hands thoroughly” on the back of the bottle should’ve warned me. But somehow I didn’t interpret its ominous meaning.
And just in case you’re curious about the result, let me just say that it was, well, intriguing, much in the same sort of way as train wrecks are. My legs were streaky, my stomach was still white, and I had an uncanny orange glow on my palms, behind my knees and on the bottom of my feet.
So I had two choices: 1) wait for it to fade or 2) sand it off with a super-sized loofa sponge. Since I’m the kind of person who has heaps of tolerance for pain, but not a lot of patience, I chose the latter.
And let me just say that, as of this morning I scrubbed off almost all of my outer skin and at least five pounds from my thighs, which, hey, means I’m thinner. THINNER. But the really good news is that in dim lighting I’m almost back to a normal color.
Sure there’s a moral in here somewhere. Maybe it’s the obvious one about vanity leading to a person’s immanent downfall, or maybe it’s just that orange is the default color of all self-applied beauty products.
Whatever it is, I know one thing for sure: self-tanning is not for the faint of heart.
And don’t bother telling me, “I told you so.” Just pass me the loofa.
