Do you ever find yourself trying something new- then wishing you had not? I am not talking about the great stories you hear most, like:
“I went skydiving for the first time — at 57! It was exhilarating!”
“My first time rafting the Amazon was on a whim, I had never even stepped into a boat before!”
“I had no idea that bungee jumping off of a platform that high, deep within the Congo, could be so freeing!”
NO. Not those stories. Those are success stories. Those are stories told by true adventurers, dressed in loosely folded fabrics, stretched languidly across an Ethan Allen Hemmingway Collection settee at someone’s Wine Party and Benefit For the Homeless Who Long To Read “The Secret”- event. Those people are children of a protected destiny. They are the chosen ones, who are destined to do new, adventurous things and do them successfully.
I am not one of those people. Usually, if I do something different and adventurous, it is on a whim, by the seat of my pants and 50 percent of the time, it turns out disastrous. Sig says I hop from thing to thing, living life out loud and embracing the ideal of “come what may”. Well, that is what Sig meant to say anyway. I’m sure of it. So what if it actually came out like “You just take on things suddenly and if they don’t work out, oh well! But, by that time you have dragged us all into it, it causes stress like you can’t believe!”
This was a postscript to our long and rather unfulfilling counseling session. (By the way — that therapist has to have a loved-one on a chain at home. No one is that controlled without some sort of REALLY DEVIANT {and possibly intriguing} behavior.)
However — as I said — it isn’t as if I mean to be that way. Opportunities just come a knocking and I don’t have sense enough not to answer the door! “Brain Surgeon for a day? What? It's first prize in a contest I won? Oh sure. I’ll be right over, what hospital?” I’m not kidding. Fear of failure is not a built in protective mechanism in my little, delusional world. I am pretty invincible and, pretty apt to stay that way. (I had to tell Sig the bad news about that this morning.)
But yes, there is definitely a huge margin of error in my state of being- a couple of weeks ago was a prime example. I am a very fair person. No, not fair as in “well, I see your point— and your point,” but fair as in lily white- white as a swan- white as the moon in winter- white- you get the point.
It gets depressing sometimes. Yes, it is true that blondes have more fun. That part I like, but the summer tan — only ever looking like results that come from toasting your bread on setting number 4 on your standard Kitchen Aid toaster — not so fun. I hate it. I long for the bronzed body that I so richly deserve. Inside of this Nordic princess is a Grecian southern-Italian woman just screaming to get out! And this is where my not-so-adventurous-adventure comes in. I decide, not with the help, advice, or knowledge of anyone I know, to take advantage of the coupon I have received in the mail and get a spray-tan.
On a whim and completely without thought, I drive 1.2 miles down the road; park the minivan with the personalized license plate that says DOM MOM and walk in as if I have spray- tanned thousands of times before. The woman who took my coupon made me nervous. She was young, bronzed and (might I add), bronzed in places that maybe you shouldn’t be bronzed — like underneath your fingernails. Hmmm.
I decided I had better tell her I was a Spray-Tan virgin.
“Hey, I am a spray-tan virgin.” (Well, now was no time to mince words.)
“Okay,” she says, “we’ll go easy on you since this is your first time.” I would have laughed but she wasn’t laughing.
“I don’t want to walk out of here looking tanned. I want it to look natural.”
“Oh, it does. And because you are so fair, we will use the lightest setting and no bronzer. You will just look healthy- not all tanned.”
In hindsight, I probably should have been offended at the healthy reference, but I was too nervous about the outcome and was also parting with money- a bad combination for this stodgy ol' Capricorn.
She led me to the isolation booth, explained that it would spray, told me some stuff about jelly, said it was okay to breathe, gave me a horrible looking shower cap and left. Hmmmm. Hmmm, Hmmm, Hmmmm.
So all I needed to do was get in “like this” and push the white button “like th-“ “HOLY CRAP AND THE CRACKERS TO GO WITH IT!” I WAS BEING EXTERMINATED!!! I COULDN’T BREATHE- THERE WAS A TOXIC PLUME INSIDE THIS CUBICLE!
(Moment to regain senses)
“OKAY. OKAY. I can breathe. I don’t know what I am breathing or how much it is shortening my life span- but I can breathe.” I had my fingers splayed like a little frog, which was the last direction she left me with that I could remember. I began to twist while this hideously cold jet of foul-smelling spray sort of tried to “mist” me “evenly”. It reminded me of the rides at small-town fairs like “House O Horrors,” where the scariest thing about the whole ride was wondering if it was so worn out and dilapidated that it wouldn't make it all the way through the final swinging doors.
Finally, it was over and I could get the (h-bomb) out of there. I gently patted and regained composure. That’s right. Now I remembered- I just got an instant, subtle, golden- HEY-I looked in the mirror. Nothing.
There was nothing different about me except two brown streaks that looked like drip marks, across my stomach. I couldn’t believe it. Nothing. I got dressed and went out.
“Well, it looks like you did fine.”
“Really?” I said, “Because I don’t see any difference.”
“Oh sure there is” she smiled, “plus it will get a little darker as the evening wears on. Remember not to shower for at least 8 hours.”
I left dejected and $35.00 poorer. I was hoping to be bronzed and beautiful as I was showing a dog in a dog show the next day. I could see it wasn’t gonna happen though.
I called my friend Violet and told her what an idiot I had been. She was on her way to visit and I made her promise not to tell anyone as we were having dinner with a bunch of dog show colleagues. At approximately 8:45 that evening, just after we moved from the darkened restaurant where we had dinner, to the lively neighborhood coffee shop, Violet started to sing the Umpa Loompa song subtly and shifted her gaze back and forth from my eyes to my hands until I finally looked. MY HANDS WERE THE COLOR OF A RIPE NAVAL ORANGE!
To make a long story short, spray-tans will continue to develop over the course of two days- even with showering, oatmeal baths, bleach and resurfacing by the Department of Transportation Emergency Road Crew. I attended the dog show looking like the end stage of liver failure. Sig finally noticed me after 36 hours or so- and now, three weeks later my nails are still bright orange. But hey, it was an adventure. Just not the kind of adventure you will hear at a wine and blah, blah benefit, stretched languidly across the Ethan Allen Hemingway Collection Settee.
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