Burnt to a Crisp

What I wouldn’t give to get a tan. To look in the mirror and not be disgusted that, overnight, the Pillsbury Doughboy has invaded my body once again.

I’m not talking about one of those lame spray-tans, the ones that somehow mutate skin into a sickly shade of orange. I want a straight-up, God-given, sun-kissed bronze. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’ve tried. I’ve sat out on the beach next to my redhead sister -- yes, even my ginger sibling somehow manages a tan -- and spritzed tanning oil on my body like some uppity Sarasota retiree. But, even after repeated use, I’m convinced the stuff is just coconut-scented water in a flashy bottle.

I’ve gone running and played tennis shirtless hoping that if I’m constantly moving around, then the sun will have plenty of chances to coat my body in a heavenly, not-patchy-in-any-way golden luster.

I’ve even denied the sun’s existence. (If I’m not getting tanned, then nobody is!)

Of course, resistance is futile. I burn -- worse than a fresh-cut log thrown onto an open campfire. At this point, I think the whiteness of my skin is just a mere attempt at covering up what color it really wants to be -- a nauseatingly raw shade of pink.

I remember an awesome family vacation the summer between senior year of high school and freshman year of college -- one that was made fractionally less awesome after I was baked like a lobster on day one. I remember looking like Rudolph after a tennis tournament a couple of years ago, somehow having forgotten to dab my nose with SPF. I also remember just yesterday transforming like a Crayola from “Piggy Pink” to “Pink Flamingo.” Oh, the wicked adventure of sitting poolside without sunscreen! I’m such a rebel.

I guess I’ll have to accept the fact that some things never change. Like my ability to tan, or the chance that one of my many fan letters to Margaret Thatcher will get answered. Looks like I’ll have to wait until intravenous tanning goes mainstream ... or just forget it. I’m getting a spray tan!