I hail from a line of pale folks. To say we are melanin-ly challenged might be an understatement. My line of people belongs back on the misty hills of Ireland where we would be shielded from the sun's cruelty by soft fog. When my father's people immigrated to the states, they chose New Orleans for their home. The air there is tender and the low lying land far from the ozone. Unfortunately, as young man, my grandfather's health was not stellar and when he had a TB scare the family packed him off to the sunny hills of Colorado so that his lungs could heal. They did. He met a wee, feisty Irish woman. They bred a gaggle of red headed spawn. They, in turn, produced my generation. I met a fellow with my same complexion. We bred a small brood. And so on....
As a teen I hated my pale skin and went to great lengths to alter my whiteness. Some of that foolishness I now pay for with annual visits to my dermatologist. The other attempts left orange splotches on my clothes and much mockery from my family. At some point, maybe after I had Loren, I grew comfy with my color and the coverage of capris. But, alas, sweet Cassidy has hit 14 and hates her paleness. I truly believe her freckles look stunning against the background of her light skin, but sister has taken to wearing long sleeved shirts in the heat of summer to hide her limbs. I can't have that. She is devoted to sunblock and was easily talked out of slathering her body in oil and baking in the sun with the condition that she (we) give spray tanning a try. Cass had tried the lotion a time or two, this resulted in the above mentioned streaks and splotches. So it seemed harmless enough and I booked us for back to back appointments last Friday.
Now, I've been naked in front of doctors, given birth in the buff, had massages and waxes, but going full monty in front of the spray tanning lady was a humiliation of its own grandeur. Maybe because for those other nudey activities I have been lying down? Don't know. But I do know that standing tall and naked in front of that sticky spray spawned a motivation in me to battle gravity with Jedi fierceness in the near future. But I did it and then Cass went in and did it, though she wore a bikini for her session. I don't own a bikini and, with Matt's urging, figured go buff or don't go at all.
We paid the tan lady an obscene amount of money and went home to await the results. I had forgotten the stench of tanning formulas. I've tried them all and it doesn't seem to matter if they are Estee Lauder, Chanel, Copper Tone, they all stink like the QT of yesteryear. And they are sticky. Sticky like you don't want any part of your body touching another part.
After waiting an hour or two the color started to show. By night my arms, belly and ass were a lovely shade of Clementine. The next morning? OMG. My legs. Apparently spray lady didn't like to crouch? Maybe the view back there wasn't pleasing? I'll never know because I'm never going back to her. It's as if somebody stood, while blindfolded, and tossed orange coloring at my legs. There are splotches, white stripes, brown patches. Cassidy's results were the same: color until her knees, at which point she is pretty much leopard spotty to her feet. I should have gone back and demanded a refund or a touch up, but things are fading and now it seems like such an effort that I don't particularly care. Plus, I have my collection of capris.
Cassidy has not given up and we have been online looking for at home spray tanner machines. Turns out we can buy one for roughly what I paid Lame Spray Lady. Cass figures I can spray her. Maybe Matt can spray me. We'll be orange and happy and splotch free.