Not only have I re-developed my stutter, I've also forgotten that I am a natural blonde with fair skin. That makes me 'Phototype I' (ie: a weak link in the human species, subject to skin cancer and vast amounts of fuzzy body hair). It seemed only appropriate that I start 'tanning' in order to prepare my thin, papery skin for the Caribbean heat.

I also have this idea that being tan makes one look thinner. I know it doesn't, just shut up and allow me to dream.

I was behaving myself in the tanning salon, going for three to five minutes. I got brave and worked up to seven minutes, comfortably frying with little to no pain. Why did I get so far away from my Goth-vampire-I-can-see-veins-through-my-skin roots? Why?

I'll tell you why--those little hoochies who work the tanning salon counter did it.
"Oh, yeah, like you so look darker! It's so awesome! You should try some new lotion--it's totally going to make you bronze!"
"Oh, no, you can't like get REAL skin cancer when you're in there--that's just a marketing ploy the scientists use because you get magical POWERS when you tan--and they don't want that!"
"Oh my God! Your boobs look bigger and your butt looks smaller! Tanning is SO awesome!"

Forgive me. I, too, can fall victim to driveling societal measures encouraging women to kill themselves, one tiny molecule at a time. I went in yesterday for ten minutes.

Ten minutes in a stand-up tanning booth is equivalent to thirty four hours of sunlight while standing on Planet Venus. If you shine a bright light at my face right now, you'll be able to read your future in mercurial colors. I'm bright friggin' red from head to toe.

My breasts are burnt, my nose is burnt, my thighs are burnt, my armpits are burnt, my toes are burnt, my eyelids are burnt, my lips are chapped, and my stretch marks are--not burnt.

The good news is that all of my contortionist efforts in the tanning booth are paying off. There's hardly a spot that isn't evenly burnt. Well. There's a few, but I don't think anyone will see those.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall of a tanning booth--watching what silly things humans do all in the name of vanity. Of course, if a fly really DID sit on the wall of a tanning booth, he would burst into tiny flames (POP! Whiiiiiizzzzzzzzzzz) and die a horrible death.

The good part about my tanning salon is that each booth comes equipped with loudspeakers. This tells me that should a fire alarm go off while I'm baking my ass off, I'll be able to escape (right after I put out my skin and drag on some clothes). The other neat thing about loudspeakers in the tanning booth is that I can listen to the radio, holding one leg up and hopping on the other. Why, just the other day, that stupid "Get Jiggy With It" song came on and I started dancing.

Dancing. Naked. In a Tanning Booth.

It's kind of weird, sure, but it's also fun. Liberating. I'm in public, naked, dancing! Okay, okay, so no one can SEE me, but still--I'm naked in a public place!

Hmm. I think that dancing exposed more of my skin than I'm comfortable with--I haven't been able to sit correctly for a day, now.

Anyway, the madness of tanning should soon cease once I make it to the beach. Then, I'll just slowly allow myself to bake in the natural light of the sun. Ah. To be blonde on the beach. I should just admit it to myself:

I'm gonna shrivel up into a raisin on my honeymoon.