Original or extra-crispy
The lights kick on, not gently, but brutally. The bluish tint assaults the eyes, the heat tickles every pore on your naked body.
The clamshell shuts and it’s just you in a world of bluish-purple. Decidedly a 2001: A Space Odyssey moment after HAL has been naughty and his brains picked apart and Dave’s hurtling through the mind-bending warp of Jupiter – alternating between views of himself as an embryo and an old man, eating mush – all set to some weird-assed music.
You’re shut in with Gorillaz singing “Dirty Harry" on the iPod.
The next thing you know, the heat and the light are way too much and you’re on the edge of twilight in your mind, that place that is sleep, but it isn’t, because your brain still registers it.
And your seven minutes is up.
That, for me, is tanning.
Well, insomnia tanning.
Vane, I know. I pooled my money - $45 – and bought an unlimited tanning package. Just to catch my fish-belly-white ass up to the reddish-brown healthy glow of my face, arms and legs (up to my knees, where the shorts stop).
“Duuude, you’ve got a hell of a farmer’s tan going on there.”
Don't I know it.
So much so, there’s a V that runs down my neckline, like a reddish-brown ascot, where I leave my cycling kit open and catch some rays.
I’m tanning. Just for 30 days. A month. And indulgence. Unlimited.
(Except, it’s not. The sign in the room warns that people should tan every 48 hours, but that you can tan ever 24 hours – at your own risk. But you can’t go twice in one day, that’s not allowed. So really, it’s not unlimited, but a 30-day pass.)
I figure I can get in every day until I like my color. And if I do go every day, for 30 days (George Hamilton, anyone?) that’s like $1.50 for each tan. And that’s much cheaper than beer or even a Rock Star every day.
I find it extremely relaxing. For seven minutes (which is all the time I’m allowed right now – building to a cap of 15 minutes).
I just want to be golden-brown all over. Not just my face, my arms, my ascot and my calves.
I can stop. Really.
The clamshell shuts and it’s just you in a world of bluish-purple. Decidedly a 2001: A Space Odyssey moment after HAL has been naughty and his brains picked apart and Dave’s hurtling through the mind-bending warp of Jupiter – alternating between views of himself as an embryo and an old man, eating mush – all set to some weird-assed music.
You’re shut in with Gorillaz singing “Dirty Harry" on the iPod.
The next thing you know, the heat and the light are way too much and you’re on the edge of twilight in your mind, that place that is sleep, but it isn’t, because your brain still registers it.
And your seven minutes is up.
That, for me, is tanning.
Well, insomnia tanning.
Vane, I know. I pooled my money - $45 – and bought an unlimited tanning package. Just to catch my fish-belly-white ass up to the reddish-brown healthy glow of my face, arms and legs (up to my knees, where the shorts stop).
“Duuude, you’ve got a hell of a farmer’s tan going on there.”
Don't I know it.
So much so, there’s a V that runs down my neckline, like a reddish-brown ascot, where I leave my cycling kit open and catch some rays.
I’m tanning. Just for 30 days. A month. And indulgence. Unlimited.
(Except, it’s not. The sign in the room warns that people should tan every 48 hours, but that you can tan ever 24 hours – at your own risk. But you can’t go twice in one day, that’s not allowed. So really, it’s not unlimited, but a 30-day pass.)
I figure I can get in every day until I like my color. And if I do go every day, for 30 days (George Hamilton, anyone?) that’s like $1.50 for each tan. And that’s much cheaper than beer or even a Rock Star every day.
I find it extremely relaxing. For seven minutes (which is all the time I’m allowed right now – building to a cap of 15 minutes).
I just want to be golden-brown all over. Not just my face, my arms, my ascot and my calves.
I can stop. Really.
Comments
Just wait until the month ends...will you really be able to stop? And will your frog-belly white regions REALLY catch up, or are you just trying to get them to be less pasty? I must admit, a flesh ascot isn't attractive, but a white booty is kinda fun - it feels more naughty when you see tan lines.