Dustin
Curry
Contributing
writer
You never realize just how much your feet and crotch stink until you get into a large, heated, glass tube with your nose at one end and a high-powered fan at the other.
I recently completed my first week of indoor tanning. In the weeks prior to visiting the tanning salon, I had pondered the risks of using a tanning bed: premature skin aging, immune system suppression, as well as skin cancer.
When I mustered the courage to finally hop in the cancer casket, I discovered a whole new world of terrors that the dermatologists never warned me about.
The first problem arose before I even reached the tanning bed. As I entered the salon, I found myself wading through droves of high-strung, orange-skinned tanorexics that resembled an amalgam of the “Jersey Shore” cast and every person you ever hated in high school.
I reached the front counter, bought a single tanning session (just to test the waters) and was then asked by the platinum blonde cashier how long I’d like to go under the lamps today. Being a first-time tanner, I wasn’t sure how long I should bake, but 20 minutes seemed like a good, even number, so I went with that.
I made it into my private tanning room, undressed and lotioned up. The directions on the lotion bottle said to “apply liberally,” so I made sure that there was a nice layer of sludge on all parts of my body for an optimal tan.
I made sure to not sit in the plastic lawn chair provided for the room. In my prior research, I had learned that tanning beds are sanitized after every use, but the additional room furniture may go uncleaned for ages. That single chair probably had more crabs than a seaside Cajun restaurant.
One of the problems of bed tanning that most doctors warn you about is eye damage from the bulbs. I made sure to put on my tanning goggles—plastic shades that made me look not unlike the lovechild of Michael Phelps and C-3P0.
Now came the moment I’d been waiting for. I lay down in the tanning bed, shut the lid and felt the lamps roar to life. For a moment, there was a feeling of relaxation in the warmth. Quickly, however, that feeling was replaced by horror as an electric fan at the foot of the bed spun to life.
The fan, of course, was intended to keep you cool while tanning, but I found it effective in stirring up every foul smell my body could produce and streamlining it to my nostrils. Suddenly, I could smell the melanin and lotion residue of every other person who had ever used that particular bed.
I bit my lip, eyes watering, and tried to stick it out, but the smell was overpowering. I could feel my skin burning to a leathery crisp. The final straw, however, came when the salon’s radio began to blare Nicki Minaj’s “Super Bass.”
Fueled by anger, I leapt from the bed and threw on my clothes. The tanning lotion caused the fabric to stick to me like a stamp. I passed the front counter and swore under my breath to never use a tanning bed again, thank you very much!
I flew out onto the sidewalk and began to walk back to my car when I saw a face I recognized all too well moving toward me. I tried to contain my elation as I watched my most recent crush walk by with a smile.
Just as I was about to let out a gasp, the unrequited love of my life turned back to me and said, with a silky smooth voice, “Hey there, looking good. Have you been tanning?”
With a goofy grin, I said, “Why yes, yes I have,” turned on my heels and raced back into the tanning salon to buy a month’s subscription.
