(There is a lot of new vocabulary in here so you might want to get a notebook and write these down.)
The power-couple interests me because I like to people watch, and I’ll admit, at first I was a little envious of the freedom of their lifestyle, hard bodies, and perfect tans. Rick & Tammy ride their bikes to the pool. Easy to do when you don’t have to carry a stack of towels and a beach bag full of sunscreen, reading materials, snacks, snorkels, and mommy’s skinny margarita hidden in a sports drink bottle. The adorable pair flirt and make-out on land and in water, leaving the rest of us shading our kids’ eyes or scurrying them off to the playground during adult swim. But this week I witnessed a tiny tear in the fabric of Rick & Tammy’s bronzed union. After flipping with his wife to back tanning mode, Rick used his allotted 20 minutes to turn his head and stare openly at the female teenage lifeguards and their friends. My conclusion: tan attracts tan.
Now, I come from a long line of melanoma-impaired Irish people. The amount of Cuban blood coursing through my veins is designated strictly for my nalgas (that’s booty ya’ll) and dancing salsa. There wasn’t enough left to give me thick sun-barricading skin. In high school, my nickname was Casper. Cruel, but true. If I wore anything that showed leg skin, I knew I was going to be picked on that day. In the 90’s, fake-tanning supplies had a long way to go in product development. When I borrowed some of my mom’s fake-&-bake lotion, my legs looked like those of a pale tiger with orange stripes and smears instead of the golden-bronze look the lotion bottle promised.
My next attempt at ditching my horrible nickname was “laying out.” A term I learned upon moving to Georgia. Up north in Minnesota and Wisconsin we would just “sun bathe.” But in the south, tanning is serious business so I was forced to “lay out” in the 4’x4’ patch of yard on the corner by the road. This was the ONLY patch of grass in our entire front and back yard that got any sun. Desperate pale girls go to desperate measures to be tan and Casper wasn’t playing around. As soon as the weather was warm enough for a bikini, you could find me soaking up rays (in vain) at the corner of our yard. The very corner where 2 busy neighborhood streets intersect , right by the mailbox, much to the chagrin of my parents… and probably the mailman. But the embarrassment of their translucent teenage daughter in a bikini in the front yard for everyone in our small town to see was less expensive than chopping down a couple of trees in our backyard. I asked, they’d said no. And in my desperation, I didn’t care who saw me or what people said. I just wanted to be tan. But all I got was burned.
By the time I turned 21, I had skin cancer removed from my face. Needless to say, I don’t lay out anymore, and instead, avoid the sun like the plague. In my purse at this very moment you will find 6 different tubes of sunscreen with SPF’s varying 55-85. I also spend a good deal of money on Jergen’s Natural Glow tanning foam and spray-on fake-&-bake products. (Jergen’s is the best. Trust me. I’ve obviously tried them all, but if you know of a better product, please share with the rest of the Pale Population.)
I’ve long since accepted my pale plight, choosing to flaunt muscular and toned white legs, than hiding them in pants. I live in Houston, pants just aren’t an option from May to September. My conclusion: Classy Girls wear sunscreen and spray tan.
Here’s the PSA part: El Sol. The bright orange ball in the sky that we rely on for life is slowly killing more than 8000 unfortunate thin-skinned souls affected by skin cancer each year. DON’T FORGET TO WEAR SUNSCREEN.
