Spring is here, and we all know what that means: warmer weather.
The good news about this is that flowers bloom, baby animals emerge
and the kids can go back outside to play.
Spring is here, and we all know what that means: warmer weather. The good news about this is that flowers bloom, baby animals emerge and the kids can go back outside to play. The bad news is that at about, say, 75 degrees or so, you (and by you, I mean me) will be forced to swap the jeans and long-sleeved sweatshirts for a more weather-appropriate look. And, sure, while this might not seem so bad to you, to me it means that the lumpy, pale blob otherwise known as My Pasty White Winter Body will be in plain sight for the entire world to see.
Now before you start yelling and reciting passages from the Ridiculously Superficial Manifesto, we all know there are a lot more important things to worry about in life than flabby thighs and cellulite, like say, wrinkles and drooping eyelids. (Oh, all right. I mean war and world hunger. ) But you’ve probably read my column long enough to know that you’re not going to get lofty stuff like that here.
But I digress.
After all these years in my body I’ve learned two things: Number one, I will never be 5-foot-7, and number two, no matter how many leg lifts or sit-ups I do, this is, unfortunately, as good as I’m going to get. And, really, what do I expect? I come from a long line of people Who Should Never Wear Bathing Suits in Public. Not that my people don’t have other outstanding qualities, mind you, but I’m just saying that if the past is any indication of the future, I’m operating at my genetic best.
So this year I have a new plan: If you can’t firm it, tone it or exchange it: tan it.
However, this brings up one teeny, tiny problem. As crazy as it seems, I don’t have a lot of time in my busy day to loll about on a lounge chair by the pool, sipping pineapple margaritas and reading trashy novels. No matter how fabulous this sounds.
That said, my friend Marg, the connoisseur of all things girly, suggest I try a “tanning salon.”
Now even though I’m not what anyone would call a “salon kind of girl,” I spent the next few days checking out various local tanning options. I finally ended up in a place I’ll call Salon Expensiveque, which I chose on the merit of it being next to a pizza parlor and a video rental place.
The good news was that, like most tanning places, I could chose from four levels: the Level One Bed, which has about the same tanning power as the florescent lights in the produce section of a grocery store, up to the Level Four Bed which catapults you into the sun.
The bad news is that I’ve always had an unreasonable fear about being trapped in tiny places, especially ones that look like glass coffins and heat upward to a bazillion degrees. However, I’m not one to let a little blinding terror stop me. So I made an appointment for the Level Four bed, figuring since it was faster there would be less time to pass out.
Let me just say that as I lay in the tanning bed several thoughts flew through my mind. Such as: What if the top gets stuck shut? What if I fall asleep and no one notices? Is this what it feels like to be dead?” And, most importantly, “What if certain crucial parts get burned?” So because I’m a genius, and a Big Fat Wimp, I changed positions to make sure I tanned evenly. For the first five minutes I put my ankles behind my knees. Then I swung around and flailed my hands to either side, then flipped on my stomach and tucked both feet in my armpit. Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but still.
The best part was that after only a few visits I looked tan, thinner and, dare I say it, sexy. The worst part was that I couldn’t sit down because of a certain, now, baboon-like body part. But whatever. In any case, the worst part was yet to come. Due to a cruel twist of fate, it rained. And rained. And rained. And, you guessed it, I went back to wearing jeans and long-sleeved sweat shirts.
But, underneath, I’m really a 5-foot-3, middle-aged, slightly frumpy bronzed goddess. At last.
