Brad and I are going to New Orleans for the Jazz and Heritage festival in a mere 6 days. The temperatures down there average at about 28 to 30 degrees Celsius which can only mean two things; I'm going to be wearing dresses and shorts, and my blindingly white Newfoundland legs absolutely will not do.
I've been referring to my thighs as "the great whites" for years now. No matter what I do, they will always be my problem area and after almost 26 years, I'm coming to terms with that. However, the "white" part is something that I have had enough with. It was time to take action.
After some counselling from my 19 year old cousin, Julie, as well as standing firm on my decision that a tanning bed is a melanoma box that is never to be entered again, I sauntered in to my local Bath and Body Works and purchased myself a can of spray tan, and then to my local drug store where I bought a bottle of SPF 60 for when I was at the festival. I was proud of myself for making a healthier decision, as well as setting a good example for my 9 month old, and made up scenarios in my head about how beautiful I was going to look at my daughter's wedding with my wrinkle free face. I couldn't wait to get this shit on my body.
Julie came over a couple of days later and spray tanned me as I stood like a starfish in my kitchen wearing nothing but a bandeau and bikini bottoms. She did an awesome job and a couple of hours later I had a lovely glow. I requested she come back on Thursday after work so that she could give me a second coat before she jetted off to Mexico for a family vacay on Friday morning. She said she could and I eagerly anticipated our next meeting.
For someone who has the skin tone of a palliative care patient after spending a week in the Dominican Republic, the idea of having a beautiful tan without the risk of skin damage and without having to coat myself in Eversweet and lie on tinfoil for seven days straight was pretty appealing.
Thursday evening came though, and the unthinkable happened. Julie didn't have time to come spray me. I could either spray tan myself, or get Brad to do it. Let's be serious here. Brad had trouble staining the deck and he could see the paint color. He also has the artistic abilities of Hellen Keller. This was obviously a job that I would have to do solo. I was up for the challenge.
I got in the bath and exfoliated the shit out of myself, determined to get the tan right. I put on my skivvies and went down into the kitchen where I had lots of room and it was better ventilated, and opened fire. I sprayed like there was no tomorrow, as evenly as I possibly could. Nixon sat and stared, mesmerized by my spraying skills as I did a sort of yoga/Matrix maneuver to get the back of my legs and my ass cheeks. I was feeling confident.
After I was finished and my fake tan had dried (but not darkened yet), I sent a text to Ashley to do some damage control, just in case I looked like a lunatic the next morning. She gave me some reassurance that nothing could be as bad as her spray tan experience that left both her and her husband house bound for three days before their wedding, but I also sent off a text to my friend Mark who I knew would be brutally honest. When he asked me where I got my spray tan done, tanner's remorse started to set in. What if this didn't go as planned?
A few minutes later, Brad came up to the bedroom to inform me that Nixon had been making his way to his kennel and not only slipped, but full on wiped out in the puddle of Jersey Shore that I had left behind in the kitchen. I took this as a bad omen. Nixon also refused to speak to me for the remainder of the evening.
I woke up this morning to a beautiful sunny day, but doom settled upon me when I remembered the previous evening's activities. I whipped off the bed sheets to see the damage and oh my God, I have vitiligo. Sweet teenage Jesus.
I began to have visions of wearing a mask on my face and carrying an umbrella a la Michael Jackson while simultaneously rocking out to the Foo Fighters. I can only hope that several showers and some severe exfoliation can help this matter, and I'm glad that I decided to spray myself a week in advance. Luckily my upper body is doing okay, but pants will be an asset until this is taken care off.
All I can say right now is move over, Mike Sorrentino. You don't know the meaning of "The Situation" until you've seen this shit.