Key West: Prepping to leave home...

   "Should I do it?" I asked.  I was nervous for some reason.

"I don't know!" she smiled back.  She was laughing just at the thought of it.

"I'll go, I'll go, I'll go..." I muttered the quote from Cameron in Ferris Bueller's Day Off as I got the nerve and made a phone call.  "Okay," I said.  "All set."

I devilishly snickered a little every time I thought about it -- ever since I started to think about it.  I'm pretty predictable about things like that.  It was silly and wouldn't help anything, but hell... I couldn't resist TRYING it.

Since the last week in January, Rae and I had been planning ahead for our trip.  I knew I had to think about it more than she did.  My winterized, alabaster skin in the Florida heat would surely scorch.  I was sure to come away with anywhere from a bright pink to a deep red somewhere.  It was a matter of time.

Rae has it lucky in a way.  She has that golden complexion from genetics, and her years of life-guarding the north metro beaches as a teen only helped her tan that much quicker.  Lucky ducky.

I however get the skin of my ancestors from northern Norway, above the polar circle.  The ones who don't see sunlight for months at a time.  And, even in the summer, it's too cold for prolonged exposure.  

Oh yeah, and my time spent in several overnight jobs in my youth didn't help at all.  I worked 3rd shift at a gas station and a grocery store.

Then there was the summer I devoted myself to learning how to play a drum set.  I was in the garage during the day trying desperately to figure it out, worked at night, and my skin actually had kind of a bluey-green tint to it.  Looking at pictures of me during that time, you might want to adjust the color to warm me up, only to discover that the sky behind me had turned purple.  So, I guess my 1992 skin tone would look great as long as you expected to have one of those psychedelic Flash Gordon backdrops.

Things did get rosier for me though.  All those years spent in promotions for the radio stations brought me out into the sun.  And I've been spending recent summers on some serious landscaping projects.  But still... I'm pretty pale compared to most.

I'm a "winter." 

So, for me, I had no option.  I gotta get in shape.  Not my muscles, though I have been working out more in 2009.  I'm talking about my skin.

It had been a long while since I visited the tanning booth, but I knew I still had sessions left on my account from about 2 years ago.  Tanning booth is a loose term for me -- more of a colloquialism really.  

It's the place where I get to feel like a fucking baked potato in the microwave.  

It's the place where there are really only three possibilities.  Either I don't burn and see very little change, I burn a little in various places and notice very little change everywhere else, or I burn quite a bit and can't get comfortable for three days.

It is for this reason I always wear underwear in the tube.  Always.  Boxer briefs are preferable, to make sure it's all covered.

I'm actually quite proud to say that my ass does not see the sun much if at all.  I like sitting on it, and would hate to NOT sit on it.  I don't even want to imagine how uncomfortable burning it would be.

So, we went to the strip mall and stopped in to the salon.  I guess salon is the best word to describe it.  

Every time I go in, the smell hits you as soon as you walk in.  Hot sweat and day old grapefruit.  It's like I'm stepping into a different world, and my skin starts prickling as soon as I enter.

Since last time I went in, they had more bed options for me.  One that was very hard to burn in, one that was very hard to burn your face, a stand up one, and the regular beds.  They also had the spray on kind, which I dismissed right away.

So I bought in.  I thought I should try the "sample pack."  One of each of the four... minus the spray on one.  That was too cheesy for me.

All of these beds, by the way, have great names that all mean the same thing.  They were: Ultimate, Superior, Premier, and Super... I think that's what they were.  They could have been Optimum, Superlative, Ideal and Top-Drawer for all I knew.... like I knew what the difference was between them.  It SHOULD be: Non Burn-y, Non Face Burn-y, Stand Up and Regular... but I guess the marketing folks decided to stick with their thesaurus left open at the word BEST.

So, I tried the Non-Burn-y one first.  The lights looked like black lights, and you had to physically flip over about half way through.  The heat got pretty bad toward the end, but I held together.

I burned.  But only slightly.  I knew I could be the exception to the rule!

A couple of days later, I did the Stand Up one.  Don't do the stand up one!!!

Here's why:  I stepped in and grabbed each of the two stripper poles (hands at or above head level) on the sides after closing the casket.  The bright lights came on and I felt the heat immediately.  And, I swear to all that is holy that I could smell butter, sour cream and chives.  Why not just wrap me in fucking tinfoil and throw me in the oven for an hour at 350?

I was only in there for seven minutes, and I was just about to bail when the lights shut off.  My skin was smoking, I'm sure.  I just couldn't see it with those goggles on my face.

I stepped out, smelling like my high school gym locker and a produce dumpster, got dressed and felt my skin stretch.

After getting home, my abs (they may lack definition, but they're still there) and sides --especially under my arms -- were solid red.

That night, I sweated it out.  It was cold outside, but my skin was steaming.  I put on a waffle shirt the next morning.  I stammered out, "Mamamamamamamama," like some babbling baby as I threw it off and opted for a very soft cotton shirt.  It really hurt.

I didn't go back to the salon for a week as my burn continued to calm down.  I was now unevenly discolored. My upper chest was still pretty white, and the lower part was still pretty in pink.

"I burned... badly," I told the really friendly woman behind the counter.  She was the one who clearly knew everything about her place, and every other girl was just trying to get free tans to make sure they stayed as "the hottie" in the popular crowd.  

Don't get me wrong... most of them actually are pretty to very hot.  They already know that.  And I think we can all guess that if the girls working at tanning booths had just a few more daddy issues, they'd be working in other "salons."  But that's just a guess.

So, I did the Non Face Burn-y one next.  Thankfully, there wasn't enough time to get torched.  I didn't care how pale I still was, I only cared that I didn't burn again.  Woo hoo!

It was the week of the trip, and my skin wasn't ready.  That burn really ruined my initial plan, but fuck it.  I knew I would be wearing 30 SPF during most of this trip anyway.

Then I got the idea.  It was on the last trip as I waited for Rae to come out of her little room.  I saw the poster on the wall.  I went up to the knowledgeable and friendly (and very hot) girl behind the counter.  Red faced for at least two reasons, I asked questions.  I considered.

"I'll go, I'll go, I'll go..." I muttered the quote from Ferris Bueller's Day Off as I got the nerve and made a phone call.

I got to the place, breathed in the gym socks and citrus scent, and said, "I'm here."

The hot and knowledgeable one explained the procedure.  They left, and I put on the hair net. I used the lotion the way they said to do it.  I stepped in and put my feet on the marks on the floor and waited.  An electronic voice told me to turn... turn... turn.

I was spray painted.

"The guys are gonna freak when they see me," I said when we got home, smiling.  "This will be the tannest I have EVER been."

I was right.  I was actually tan.

Apparently the chemicals they sprayed me with worked with the proteins already in the skin.  So it wasn't a color that they put on me, it was a chemical agent that would allow a unique color based on what I already had.

But I had to leave the spray on for 24 hours.  That sucked ass.

It was the same sort of smell as normal, but it intensified as time went on.  By the end, it smelled like shark guts seared over a white hot grill, served with lemons cooked by an acetylene torch.  I couldn't stand my own stench, and Rae had a hard time sleeping because of it.  But damn was I tan.

When Rae got home after her massage at around 7pm, I was a bronze god.  Even my normally lily white ass.

I had my reasons to do this.  They were:

1. I hate being the whitest guy in paradise.  When a hot sun beams down on my pasty skin it can burn people's retinas.

2. I knew my skin couldn't take anything below 15 SPF.  That's just the way I roll.

3. It's kind of funny, right?

I also knew that the other couples weren't preparing for this trip the way we were, so it would be extra funny because I'd be the tannest one of all six of us, if only for a day.

But I wasn't going to say anything, and looking back on it I should have.  I should have stood proudly and said, "I am the goddamn Bronze-en-a-tor from the Land of Milk Toast and Ice Chips.  I am the chosen one to represent my people on this tiny spit of land you call the Conch Republic."

That would have been better, given my particular sense of timing.

So... nobody gave me shit about it.  They may have been amused by it when they found out, but it was nowhere near gut-wrenchingly funny.  It fell a little flat, to say the least.

But yes, the bronze god did get sunburned.  Freckles covered and overtook my fading tan, and about halfway through our week nobody thought about it anymore.  Talk about a buzz kill.   Good thing we had enough booze to kill 14 giant elephants.