I am very, very, very white. You know that foundation you use in winter when you’re pale and have been sun-deprived for four months? Yeah, that’s my bronzer. So as you can probably imagine, I am incapable of tanning in any capacity. Naturally, I’ve tried every single self-tanning lotion, spray, and moose to mask my blinding whiteness. After several failures and hours spent scrubbing my body with lemons and loofahs, I finally decided it was time to let the professionals go to work.
So I called the place that had been recommended to me by an equally pale person and made an appointment for the next day. I exfoliated the night before and didn’t wear makeup that entire day — I was so excited I could hardly stand it. I was finally going to go to a pool party and not have my blinding glow be the topic of discussion. Also, everyone knows that fat looks better tan so I was hyped about that.
I got to my appointment and the woman was super nice. She could tell I was a little skeptical about how this was going to turn out given my lack of pigment, but she told me not to worry. So I didn’t, and I let her work her magic. When she got to the side and told me to put my arm up she chuckled to herself and said, “Oh honey, don’t be nervous.” I gave her a puzzled look as if to say “WTF I’m not nervous,” and she said the worst thing I could ever imagine: “you’re sweating.” She then points to a curvy white line peaking through my tan, making its way from my armpit to my hip. This is when I realized that I have a problem that will most definitely conflict with a spray tan.
The problem is that I have a wonderful little gift bestowed on me by God knows as hyperhidrosis, AKA I sweat A LOT. Like, constantly sweating. You will never see my in a t-shirt of any kind, I only wear tanks and big sweaters. Recruitment is my worst nightmare, not because of all the normal reasons but because wearing the same t-shirt for an entire day is not possible for me. I could be sitting still, butt naked, in an air conditioned room and still be dripping. Like tanning, I’ve tried many things to get it under control but with no luck. I tried not to stress about it and figured if I dry well enough I should be able to make it home intact. It was only 60 degrees out and wasn’t very humid that day so I’ll be fine.
She finishes doing her thing and then gets me to stand in front of the fan to dry. As I was drying and admiring my new, less blinding, glow I noticed a similar squiggly line down my arm, I rubbed it a little and it blended right in, no big deal! I was (falsely) confident that I should any issues arise on my commute home I could fix them easily.
Not more than 2 steps out the door of the tanning room (not even at the cash register yet!) I become uncomfortably aware of how much my slippery thighs rub together… FUCK! So I pay the lady and then pray for the best as I head out.
Somehow in the hour that I spent there, 60 degrees turned into 104 and I basically knew in that exact moment that I was fucked. I waddled my way to the subway trying my best not to let my thighs touch but also trying to not look like I just shit myself. I stood on the subway for the longest 10 minutes of my life and walked the block to my house ever so slowly, knowing what was awaiting me.
When I got into my house I immediately stripped off my dress and bee-lined it to the bathroom, only to see my body in the most horrific state I’d ever seen it in. I had sweat stains all over my skin, from my pits to my waist and even in my under boobs (I don’t even have boobs but alas). My inner thighs lacked any evidence of a tan, and there was a distinct line across the back of my neck, shoulders and my chest that marked the precise cut of my racerback dress.
I was devastated. I called the place to see if there was anything I could do to fix it and they said no just get in the shower and wash it off. That’s when I felt it. A single tear, that I’d been holding back since I stepped out of the tanning salon, rolled down my cheek and land on the counter right in front of my face. I looked up at the mirror, and there it was. It’s path so clearly marked down my cheek. I couldn’t help but laugh at how absurd I looked in all my patchy glory.
So I guess it just wasn’t meant to be, fine. I got in the shower and watched my JLo glow disappear down the drain. Then, as if it could get any worse, I was inspecting myself to make sure it all came off when I realized that there was one spot that had been severely stained. Where would be a good place for all the shit congregate and stain my skin? Well, my vagina of course! Yep. It was a fate worse than razor burn and basically defeated the purpose of the Brazilian I got since I can’t wear a bathing suit without seeing the huge dark brown stains along my bikini line. And speaking of that Brazilian, let’s just say it leaves much to be desired (read: removed).
So if I ever decide to once again throw money away on another potential failure (I lost 40 bucks out of this awful experience) then I will make sure that A) it’s not 104 degrees that day and B) I’ve gone for my hyperhidrosis botox treatment. Meanwhile, I’ll just be blinding pool/beach goers and laughing at my stained vagina. .