Tan

I am a girl who has always wanted a deep, dark tan. I am also, sadly, a girl who has never been more than a nice off-white. Beige, at most. Oh, I’ve been orange, too. But that’s another story.

I’ve tried to get an outdoor tan, before we were all so completely aware of the hole in the ozone and the threat of skin cancer. In the 1970s I slathered myself with Bain de Soleil and prayed for a golden-hued miracle. Mostly I burned, then faded. When I was nine, I played the role of Emile Debeque’s half-Polynesian daughter in a local production of South Pacific. Unable to acquire a tropical tan before showtime, a makeup lady covered what showed of my legs, arms, neck and face with pancake makeup five shades darker than my skin — every night for a week.

In high school, tanning beds were the rage. Girls I knew frequented tanning salons and became various shades of copper. Some, rumored to have their own tanning bed in their home, turned prematurely leathery and brown as dried tobacco leaves. I was fearful of that extent of tan, and in fact, was forbidden to tan. So of course, I did, sneaking out to a salon on the outskirts of town that charged just $5 a tan. I attempted to gain a tan before prom. It didn’t happen. Instead, I burned and itched like crazy.

Years later, approaching a Hawaii trip, I tried indoor tanning again. That trip, combined with the pre-gaming I did indoors, is possibly the tannest I’ve ever been. Not one person commented on my tan upon my return. I was, of course, merely cafe au lait; light.

I’ve tried self-tanners, which have significantly improved over the years. My mother tells a story about a self-tanner she tried in the ’50s or ’60s; it turned her legs a bright, streaky orange. This didn’t dissuade me from trying them in my early twenties. The first time, memorably, was before the Styx concert we went to at The Fox in St. Louis. We met the band backstage after the show and in the photos we captured of the moment, I do look slightly healthier than my usual Helena Bonham Carter pallor. As the self-tanner faded, my legs grew scaly and looked diseased.

In the last few years I’ve grown fond of the Neutrogena line of build-a-tan lotions. They’re subtle, and not orangey. Want more tan? Apply more often. Sometimes, as lately, I’ve been in a hurry though, and not applied thoroughly, or well. The result of this is occasional miscolored patches; or uncolored patches, I guess. So right now I’ve got a foot that appears to be afflicted with the disease Michael Jackson has.

I’m very attracted to the idea of the Mystic Tan. I’m afraid to actually do it: the idea of being sprayed with chemicals in an enclosed area is rather frightening for anyone familiar with the Holocaust. Isn’t this a bit vain, I think, being willing to enclose yourself in a box and exposing yourself to God-knows-what we will find out this is going to do to us years later? Plus, I don’t know what it costs but I do know that it only lasts a few days. With my luck, I’d come out ochre and wheezing.

I’m destined to remain mostly white, with seasons of off-white with a chance of splotchy legs. I hope the result of all this is that I’ll keep deep wrinkles at bay longer than my high school tanorexic friends (um, I realize this is a real condition, I’m not making fun). I’m OK with that, in general. But just once it would be cool, I think, to know what I’d look like all bronzed and summery.

Do you tan?