I knew when I walked into that tanning salon I was making a huge mistake, but I went ahead and did it anyway. Earlier that day I had mentioned to a few of my friends that I was thinking about going again and knowing that I am a recovering tanning addict, most of them told me the same thing… Don’t do it, girl.
The common recommendation was to just use a self tanner to get a nice subtle and healthy glow instead, but this whitey wasn’t having any of that. I didn’t need subtle. I needed The Browns.
Okay okay, before you go thinking any little judgy things, let me make it clear that I’m not exactly yearning to be one of these:
Those are not The Browns. Those are The Oompas.
All I wanted was a nice little base tan before I start busting out the skirts and dresses. No one wants to see these blindingly white legs in their raw, natural state. You would all run screaming for the hills if you got a glimpse of these bad boys.
Anyway, as I sit here 16 hours after walking out of that satan salon, I kind of want to give myself a “subtle and healthy” slap to the face. Except that’s probably not the best idea in the world due to the fact that my face is currently the lovely shade of lobster from the agonizing burn of the artificial sun. IT HURTS!
Want to know the most pathetic part?
I’m sitting here typing with my arms lifted up off the table and my elbows floating up in the air because it hurts to let my arms sit at my sides. Know why? Because my freaking armpits are burned too. Ask me how that happened and I’ll tell you it’s because I am a pro and know how to lay in those beds without getting tan lines. Except this time my tanning bed skills came back to bite me.
I look completely ridiculous and my coworkers are starting to notice. One just asked me why I was so grumpy this morning. I said, “Because my pits burn.”
Want to know the most pathetic part, #2?
This salon started me out in a 20 minute tanning bed at the standard 6 minutes for the first session. Because of how fair complected (read: albino) I happen to be, those standard six minutes were all it took to turn me into Lobster. That’s Justin’s new nickname for me. Sweet, isn’t it? *cries*
And the most ironic part?
I put one of those heart stickers on my hip to show the progression of my tan. I know that’s kind of a slutty thing to do, but don’t judge… I like to see results.
After one session, it looks like this:
Do you see how the heart mocks me in all it’s untouched, pasty white glory? Every time I look down it says to me, “Your whole body used to be painless and pure like me, stupid Lobster.” That little white patch is cruel, I’m telling you. The blistering red skin surrounding it serves as a reminder to listen to my smart self-tanned friends next time they warn me about these types of dangers.
In conclusion (because this is turning into a really long essay-type thing), burning red skin happens to be the color of the devil and I think they should start making those little heart stickers with horns. It would be more accurate seeing as artificial sunburns do NOT equal love. They equal devil.