If I Could Save Tan in a Bottle

A few weeks ago while waiting for a movie to start at the Michigan Theatre, my companion asked me the name of the familiar tune that was being played on the historic organ. It was “The Girl from Ipanema.” The Girl from Ipanema is tall and tan and young and lovely, which, with the possible exception of young, is just about everything I am not. So I made up new lyrics for my non-Brazilian-beach-strolling self: short and pale and kinda dumpy, the girl from Pennsylvania’s walking, and when she walks she stubs her toes and says...

Yeah, I’m about as short and white as they make ‘em. I am a pale creature of the northern forest, and I think that’s why I’m okay with Michigan winters: I belong to cloud cover, snow cover, quilted covers.

Summer is another story. Summer fashion, in particular, is another story. My exposed flesh comes in one of two colors: translucent white or boiled-lobster red. My numerous freckles bloom in the sunlight, and they might become populous enough to meld together, but I’m not really ever tan. I do not remember being tan since I turned twelve. Oh, to live in a time when a woman’s fairness was praised, instead of worrying whether I am blinding passersby with the brilliant light reflecting from my legs.

“I use one of those self-tanning lotions,” said C., the blonde, girly-voiced receptionist at work, “I leave it on for a while, then wipe it off real good before I go to bed.” She waved her ringed hand at me. “You should try it.”

When I was in CVS yesterday, selecting toothpaste from an entire aisle-full of it, a section of golden bottles caught my eye. I paused before the display of self-tanners. My eyes flickered from shelf to shelf. Do I dare try it? I don’t want to be orange. They say they have better formulas now. C. doesn’t look orange. What a bewildering array of choices. Do I want lotion or spray? Light-to-medium or medium-to-dark? Do I need one with aloe? Do I need a separate one made especially for my face? The prices vary wildly, for no discernible reason other than brand name. I’m not paying $25.00 for 6 ounces of cream that might not get used. I took the $5.00 bottle of light-to-medium lotion and put it in my basket. Then I put it back. Then I put in my basket.

Once home, I stood in the bathroom and read the label. It says to distribute thinly and evenly, to wait 2 to 3 hours for full effect, and to wash your hands immediately after application. The cream is white and smells funny. It is harder than you think to distribute it evenly. I rubbed my legs and arms and put the bottle in the cabinet. I caught sight in the mirror of the pale triangle shape around my neck made by my tank top. I got the bottle back out and rubbed the triangle. I put the bottle back. Then I thought about the backs of my arms. I got the bottle back out and rubbed the backs of my arms. Then I put the bottle back and washed my hands and waited.

Nothing really seemed to happen. I went outside and read in the sun for a while. I came back in. Still pale. I cooked dinner, ate. Still pale. Surfed the web. Still pale. Oh well.

This morning when I got up, I turned my legs and arms in the light. There’s a bit of color to them. Not orange. Hey, I think it might work. But I don’t like the unnatural brown, jagged lines around my ankles. I scrub them off in the bathtub and apply more self-tanner. I am humming Jim Croce. I am happy. I am no longer a pasty Michigander. I get dressed and vogue for the mirror. Yes, I am tan and lovely. I drive to Ann Arbor and walk around. I am smiling. I am tan and young and lovely.

I am walking up Liberty Street and the sun is warm. What’s that smell? It’s sort of plasticy. Some city workers are cleaning up after the parade. Maybe it’s a trash smell. I am in Borders and sipping a vanilla Italian soda. I am tan and lovely and smiling at a dark-haired guy. What’s that smell? Something burning in the cafe? I am walking down State Street and the sun is warm and the Diag is green. What’s that smell? I sniff my arm. What the hell? It’s me.

I drive back home and look in the mirror. The backs of my arms are blotchy. The pores on my shoulders are dark, like I’m studded with poppy seeds. There’s an oval stain on my wrist and a corresponding white oval on my knee. I scrub the stain. It’s not coming off. Apart from the white spot, my legs look better than my arms. Still, they smell. So I took a second bath for the day and dusted myself with some baby powder.

I think I need to talk to C. about her self-tanning secrets before I try this again.

Otherwise, I’ll just remain a whiter shade of pale.