I got a tan.

Ok, so I didn’t actually get a tan.  I got something, but I will get to that later.  In fact, what I did was go get me a base coat for a trip that I am taking.  I am going to Mexico in a couple of weeks and decided that I didn’t want to ruin the trip by having to walk around like someone with a skin disorder because I went in the sun for three seconds and became Jeremy en-flambe.

The problem comes from my heritage.  Even though I am half Italian, and therefore tall and swarthy (as I constantly remind the lady of the house), I have a half of me that is decidedly Irish.  This means that I can drink more beer than almost anyone I know, but also means that I have skin that goes up like flash paper if exposed to UV light for longer than it takes for me to get from one air-conditioned room to another.  In light (har har) of this fact, I decided to go tanning for a couple of weeks in order to enjoy my vacation and possibly convince my household of the swarthier parts of my being.

Tanning salons are strange places.  First of all they are almost always shoved into a corner of some derelict strip mall on a busy street.  You know the kind, a long row of shops that are mostly Starbucks, and those that are not Starbucks are the kind of bar where you can catch a cheap drink, or herpes.  Or both.  At the same time.  They are almost always in a storefront that makes you think they are closed, with stained awnings covered in bright yellow lettering that looks like it was probably a different color thirty years ago.  Despite this somewhat lackluster exterior, inside it was bright and warm and there is someone there to greet you with a smile, and in my case, what a smile it was.

The woman who would be administering my dose of radiation was nice.  She had a the ready grin of someone who was about to make a commission, and a perky attitude of someone who spent her days in the “sun.”  Unfortunately, for her and for me (I have always been leery of tanning) she also looked like someone resurrected Skeletor and wrapped him rather tightly in football leather.  This kindly but aged skeleton was more than happy to take my money and give me a tour of her facility.

There are multiple types of tanning beds, did you know that?  Me either.  There are beds for the basic tan, beds that are destined to make you deeply brown, beds that look like they could keep you in stasis during a voyage across the stars, and beds that aren’t even beds because you stand up inside of it, and rotate as if in a rotisserie – a sentiment that she did not find very funny.  This last one intrigued me because I was always under the impression that the whole point of tanning was that you didn’t have to work for it.  As I was learning all of this from Mrs. Spaulding, inserting the requisite “mm-hmm” and “that makes sense” during lulls in the torrent of unfamiliar vernacular pouring from the recesses of her mouth, I came to the stunning realization that this was an industry that I was wholly, though intentionally, unknowing of and that a great deal of thought and technology goes into the whole shebang.

The tour over I was left to my devices.  Not understanding the proper workflow, I stripped to my skivvies and laid down on an impossibly thin sheet of plexiglass that was all that stood between me and what could easily become zillions of shards of razor sharp glass.  That would be the opposite of what I was trying to accomplish.  It creaked and groaned, but it stayed.  I put on my eye-shade things, took a deep breath, hit the red button and I was off.

By off I mean zapped.  Even with the required eye-ware I was stunned by the intensity of the light.  I could feel it on every square inch of my body, and the noise it was making reminded me of a time spent in an MRI (that is a story for another day).  I felt like I was young again at some rave in a warehouse, only there was no dancing, no one was asking to touch me and the only music choice I had was crappy hip hop and equally crappy country (isn’t it all?).  the fan at my feet did little more than inflate the skivvies that in hindsight I should not have been wearing.  It was incredible, the idea that light bulbs could exert a palpable force strong enough to trigger my nervous system… and cause it to ask the conscious part of my brain just what the hell it thinks it’s doing.

After some time wondering if the woman at the desk was also scanning me for cancer – (a thought that  both was hilariously ironic and terrifying), the light abruptly turned off.  Instantly I was cold and nearly blind – a problem resolved by taking off my welding goggles – but strangely refreshed.  I climbed out of the bed, to its audible relief, and dressed very confidant in the knowledge that there was not a single living thing anywhere on my body.

I said my goodbyes to the Cheerful Skeleton and left, nearly running into a small, blond, deeply tanned girl of probably 19.  Seeing people that are that tan here in Vancouver is always somewhat jarring to me because I haven’t seen the sun for more than a few hours in roughly 6 months, and know for a fact that they have not either.

I am supposed to go back tomorrow, since I am apparently “building my base.”  I was told to do so unless I feel pink.  I currently have the complexion of a lobster who was recently acquainted with his extreme allergy to boiling water, and feel a little crunchy, but I think that is what I can expect from sitting in a tube filled with the same stuff that comes out of the 90 million mile wide fireball that we are currently orbiting.

But I am told that is normal, so I’ll probably be back tomorrow.

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