(via Pale Is The New Tan)
I’ve started tanning again recently because giving myself UV damage seemed like a more doable goal for the month, especially next to the rest of my list. (Oh! That reminds me of this. So good.)
I’m not trying to get carried away; I mostly want to (appear to) lose 5 pounds without exercising and/or eating right and get tan enough that customers will quit voluntarily reassuring me about my lack of tan. (“I’m not like all these other guys. I am able to see beauty when I look at you despite the fact that you are so very, very pale. Good for you for coming out and trying. Bless your pasty heart.”)
I used to go tanning at Tub and Tan, where the people behind the desk stayed out of my business and didn’t try to tell me how to tan. As a place that is as much about hourly tubbing as tanning, they know not to ask questions. They have the same laid-back Zen air to them as veteran porn clerks or good strip club bouncers. (“Okay, now just pick which satellite radio station you two would like to listen to while you attempt to have sex in water for an hour and you’re good to go. You want a fifteen-minute tan? Room 8.”) They hang out and read their books until it’s time to make sure the pH in the tubs stays at whatever level kills human semen. They’re not sneaking off into the tanning beds at every chance they get.
Lately I’ve been going to Pacific Coast Tan and the women who work there are freaks of nature, every last one of them. I never cease to be shocked when I pull the door open and am greeted by their big white eyes looking up at me from their orange faces. They look like they must sleep in tanning beds, like orange vampires. I look at them with pity and fear. Could I somehow lose sight of what is normal and join their leathery ranks? They look at me with pity and fear, as a reminder of what could happen to them, lest they lose dedication and stray from their tanning regimens.
They try to convince me that a tanning package would save me money, and I resist because all I can hear them saying is, “One of us! One of us!” I’ve noticed that how friendly they are towards me is directly proportional to my tan and it scares me. Soon I’ll find myself lecturing those less tan than I that a good base tan (third degree burn) is the foundation of one’s tan. I’ll sigh when I discover their ignorance to different colored towels reflecting UV ions differently when placed over the face. I’ll scold them for neglecting to use expensive lotions that “bring out” the tan. (Turns out there is quite a bit of pseudoscience in the tanning community…)
There is a clique of fierce Polish fembots who work at my club. They exclusively socialize with each other when they are not getting private dances. They gossip in Polish in the dressing room, punctuating every statement with a perfume spritz, until you have to hold your breath in order to walk past them. One day they finally decided, “That Kat character is alright with us.” You know why? I accidentally cracked their code by complimenting one of them on her tan. I was mostly making an observation out loud than anything, “Wow, you look really tan.” This was good enough; I had given credit where it was due. Women who “work on their tans” like to be acknowledged for what they consider to be work. So uh, compliment a stripper on her tan today and she’ll thank you. And also, I can quit tanning any time! You’re not my real dad!!!!!11