The woman in white gloves

Apparently people in my life want me to be tan. Yesterday I was at home in Utah and Christine offered to give me a free pass to one of those spray on tanning places. This is not the first, nor likely the last, time in my life, in which people have tried to tan me. Despite my memory of the Friends episode where Ross goes to one of these places and it goes horribly awry, I thought it sounded like a better alternative to furthering skin cancer and less likely to give me blotches. Ha! So Christine, the helpful cousin that she is, gave me plastic shopping bags for my feet, and rubber gloves for my hands, to prevent these parts from getting orange. And I trusted her. I followed instructions, and it went alright I thought. Until this morning, when I was getting off my red-eye flight. It had finally had a chance to set in. I looked at my hands in the harsh cabin-light. Orangey-tan down to my wrist. A definite line, then very, very white hands. Remember Michael Jackson with the glove, back in the day?? I also have some splotches on my legs and arms. So I think I need to wear pants and a long sleeve shirt. Which sort of defeats the purpose of the whole tanning idea. Some fake things are very bad, and I think that tanning is one of them. So I think that after this, I am going to sun a little in the summer, but pretty much embrace my natural color.