The Spray Tan Story

My husband has really fair skin.  You wouldn't know it because ironically he tans beautifully.  He's the ultimate oxymoron of when it comes to all things epidermis.  His face and arms become perfect Thanksgiving turkey brown in the sun, but his legs (that hardly ever see the light of day) are Snow White creamy.   They are so snow-cap white that my kids think its hysterical to roll around on the floor giggling if he ever wears shorts.  They are ungrateful little snips those kids.   I however, understand the farmer-tan reality of adulthood and am too plagued with two-toned skin.  I don't laugh at Steve in shorts.  (I lightly snicker when he's not looking.)

Not soon after Steve booked our trip, (which is not being called a vacation per Steve…it was just a really long date.)  he came home with a gleam in his eye…which usually leads to trouble.  "I think we should both get spray tans before we leave.  That way I can wear shorts and not look ridiculous  I've called the place and got all the details.  It's going to be great.  (pause pause pause)  You go first."  Real nice.

Trying to be the supportive wife I always am, I reluctantly agreed.  Lets face it, since birth I've been uncomfortable with anything new or that I haven't tried before.  An unfamiliar brand of peanut butter makes me nervous so a first time spray tan was down right frightening.  I sweat through at least one shirt just counting down the hours until I was supposed to be at the spa in town that provides the spray tan.

Around 5:30 pm I walked into the salon (side note:  WHY do salons hire 20 something girls with no body fat, perfect skin and sparkling personalities???  It's makes us common folks feel ugly.  I want to go to a spa where every employee is middle aged, wrinkled and has a healthy layer of padding around the middle and backside…kankels and a wad of split ends wouldn't be bad either.) and the perfect barbie practically teenage girl asked if she could help me.  I told her I would like a spray tan.  She looked me up and down and told me I could use "Medium."  Ok…whatever Barbie girl…just don't make me orange ok??

She takes me into a small room on the other side of the salon and then quickly tells me instructions on how the spray machine works.  I don't really listen because I'm mesmerized by her flawless, and I mean flawless, porcelain complexion.  I ask her a random question about tanning…and she admits she's never had a spray tan.  This did NOT make me feel any better.

So there I was left in a room all by myself with a space aged shower contraption thing warming up getting ready to make me beach beautiful.  I stripped down to my birthday suit and then had to cover my hands, wrists, knees, elbows in a thick lotion that supposedly kept those parts of my body from turning orange (this is a foreshadowing moment if you didn't catch it).  Right there in the room was a very large very full length mirror.  I don't own a full length mirror and I'm wondering now if I ever will.   I won't go into why, but use your imagination.

The next few fascinating points about the spray tan experience would best be served in list form. 

 (who needs catchy transitions right?)

The enclosed spray shower itself was heated up for "my" comfort.  It had to be 100 degrees in that thing when I stepped in and shut the door.  The whole time I was in there I was sweating, which in turn made me nervous because sweat mixed with spray tans equal streaking which of course made me sweat more.   I was also afraid I would pass out from the heat.  So…there I would be naked, on the floor, covered in an orange sweat-streaked tan.  Awesome…and flattering…and not embarrassing at all.

 I had strict instructions to keep my eyes closed, but at the same time keep my feet in certain positions and change them when prompted to.   Uh….how was I supposed to see where to put them with my eyes closed?   I was positive I would be blind by the time I stepped out of the sweat machine.

A sultry women's recorded voice could be heard babbling in the background every so often.  I'm guessing she was telling me to turn around so I wouldn't be all tan on one side with the other still creamy winter white.  The problem was the crazy fan in that futuristic shower sweat shop.  The fan was so blasted loud, the recorded voice could have have been singing "Head Shoulder's Knees and Toes" and I wouldn't have know it.

The warm sticky spray my poor naked body was bombarded with started at my feet and went up spraying over my head.  Add that feeling to being overheated and I REALLY thought I was going to pass out.  So I stood there bending my knees trying to talk myself out of getting light headed.  (We all know how well that worked for me on a bus in Italy.)  I had visions on being rescued by all those skinny young beautiful girls working in the lobby.  They would have been horrified lifting my 30 something squishy naked sticky body off the floor.

After the tan was over…four quarter turns so I was properly basted…an even louder fan kicked on to properly dry my stickiness.  It lasted way too long for someone to stand there naked and waiting.  Then to make matters worse, I couldn't get the door open to get out when the fan FINALLY turned off.  It brought back the same feelings of horror when I couldn't get the things started in the first place.  Touch-less sensor to start my foot.   Really this spray tan shower is just a shower of anxiety and naked terror.

Even though I used the lotion on my hands and feet liberally, and even though I stood in that spray JUST like I was told to, my hands and feet were a lovely burnt orange color for DAYS.  I felt like sitting on my hands everywhere I went so nobody would see my crayola fingers.

As I was walking out of the spa, I had to check in the "pretties" to make sure it wasn't raining.  If it had been I would have had to hung out with them for a while.  Nobody wants a polkadot tan.

My bath towels have been orange since.  (good thing it washes out with every wash.)

My dad told me to be careful in Hawaii.  Apparently he's heard that sharks like their food caramelized.

After Steve saw my results he decided to still go and get tan himself.  He learned from my mistakes and came home with non-colored hands and feet.

I shaved my legs twice…and my tan was gone!

Steve's legs looked fantastic in shorts and on the beach.

Would I do this again???                     …maybe. But, Steve will be the Guinea pig next time, not me.