The Tan

I will admit it. I make Casper look like he's spent the last two weeks sitting on a tropical beach somewhere getting a savage tan.

It's not that I haven't tried to tan. I have. I have tried every lotion, potion, mousse, spray and gel that has been invented in the last thirty years. I have oiled myself up and burned to a crisp. I have turned my skin various shades of orange ranging from neon to harvest gold (as in the shade of kitchen appliances that were popular during the seventies--an attractive look--not). I have walked around with streaks and spots and swiirls of fake tan product gracing my legs and arms (another very attractive look---for a zebra or leopard maybe).

I had just about given up when I saw it advertised....the professional spray-on tan. Surely, this had to work. There were professionals involved, right?

And so, after exhaustive research(okay, I read one article in Cosmo and picked up a brochure at a salon), and detailed interviews ( I asked everyone I know, and although they have never tried it themselves, they all thought I should give it a whirl), I decided to take the plunge. Besides, the tanning salon was near a giant Pottery Barn. Need I say more?

But first...I had to shower, exfoliate and moisturize. Hmm, this was already cutting into shopping time. Bravely, I forged ahead though. No pain, no gain. Right? Minus one layer of skin and greased up like a body builder, I entered the salon, eager to join the ranks of people with actual pigment in their skin.

But first....I had to fill out a health form. Any skin diseases, heart conditions, breathing difficulties, recent surgeries? I've seen shorter forms when applying for life insurance! Then there were the waivers. You know, the ones absolving them from all responsibility in case of injury or death. Death? I'm pretty sure Cosmo didn't mention that little gem of a possibility. Exactly what did this procedure entail?

Nonetheless, I persisted. I was going to be bronzed and beautiful even if it killed me (which apparently, it might). I gave them my credit card, my license, my fingerprint. Fingerprint? I wanted spray-on tan, not a coating of gold from Fort Knox! Were there that many people so desperate foir a fake tan that they were going to steal mine? What was next, a security checkpoint and a cavity search? Had I come to the airport instead of the tanning salon?

At this point, I was wanted the tan if for no other reason than to satisfy my curiosity. Eagerly, I followed the woman back behind the curtain to the sacred inner sanctum, the tanning booth. I was mere minutes away from my dream.

But first......I had to cover my hair with a showercap, apply a special lotion to the palms of my hands and nailbeds, don protective eyewear and noseplugs. Was I getting a tan or entering a radioactive site? Then came the lesson on how to stand and what to expect from the machine. I was also advised to try and hold my breath for the length of the procedure, since it wasn't recommended that I breath in the spray (another little gem they failed to mention in the article).

Gamely, I stepped into the booth, closed the door, pressed the button and assumed the position. Beep, beep, beep. The machine counted down, and I drew in a huge breath of clean air. Which I promptly let out in one big gush as the freezing cold spray hit me from head to toe!

Desperately, I tried not to inhale as the spray nozzles passed over me again and again. Fifteen seconds, she had said, then five to turn around and another fifteen on the back. Not a chance in the world I was going to make it. Should I try to stop and start over? Would that produce a really dark tan one side and a lighter one on the other? Should I step out, draw a breath and then reenter, hoping for an even amount on both sides? Would I have to give my fingerprints again, or have a DNA test to get back in the booth again?

Just as I was sure I was going to pass out (so death really was a possibility), the machine paused to give me time to turn around. As spots danced behind my eyelids and I mentally drafted my last will and testament, I turned and, hoping for the best, covered my mouth with my hands and drew in a breath...of spray.

Before I could even think what to do about this latest hitch in my otherwise perfect plan, the icy cold jets hit me in the back. So now I was choking, gasping for breath and being flash frozen all at the same time! Could it get any worse?

Apparently so. After I stumbled out of the chamber of death, I toweled off, and headed for the nearest oxygen tank I could find, wondering if I was to be the first documented case of brown lung in the medical journals. But at least I'd look good at the funeral.

Several hours later, the payoff came. A deep, golden, even tan (inside as well as out). Unfortunatly, two days later, I had streaks, swirls and spots and I was looking suspiciously orange under certain lighting, like natural, flourescent, and candle.

So much for tanning. Maybe alabaster isn't such a bad look after all.