A life being addicted to fake tan – a memoir, translated from the writings of an Arabic monk

Today started like all days do after a professional spray tan – jumping in and out of the shower like the “left foot in” segment of the hokey pokey dance. A new shower record – 5.8 seconds.

Afterwards patting myself dry as though I am wiping the delicate mucous from a premature newborns head. Do I feel clean? Of course not. Do I feel the urge to roll around on a bed of course sandpaper and exfoliate all foreign matter off my body? Absolutely. Will I do such a thing?

Um, are you on crack!?

Did your mother join the circus when she was in her first trimester of pregnancy and then became a semi-professional contortionist and thereby bruised your foetus head squeezing herself into a hat box resulting in your now asking stupid questions and hurling uneducated remarks!? I’m sorry that was rude, please let me sip my latte and regroup.

Don’t you know how easily a professional fake tan is blemished by anything that looks like it could have the power to ‘scrub’ or ‘scratch’ or ‘lightly graze the surface of my skin’? Tight bra straps become my nemesis.

White fabric – I wouldn’t dare.

And when I spot the 5 hairy leg patches that I missed shaving yesterday, I just have to suck it up and let the hair remain. Because taking a razor to leg hair after a professional spray tan is like – saying swear words in a church, or drinking holy water from a yard glass at a 21st or other such blasphemous behaviour which eludes me at this very moment.

A girl who has just had a professional spray tan always needs to give a rude amount of thought to her underarms – where, unfortunately, the tan will always disappear first. This means absolutely no swimming, or exercising, or cleaning the house. No tight work shirts that will smother armpits.

Sheets will be stained, towels will be ruined. The washing up process after a tan is similar to a washing machine fest during a conjunctivitis breakout. Except Mum doesn’t make me throw out my eyeliner.

Its 9.05 am and I am at the photocopier machine looking busy. It begins. I’m mused by questions from intrigued colleagues – where do you get it sprayed? Who does it? Do you stand there naked? I wear a disposable G-String which looks visually similar to a shower cap. And the question which any girl who loves fake tans will get asked every 5 to 10 minutes...
“WHY?”

“Why Jean?” The critics ask, with such venom that an innocent bystander might be forgiven for thinking I am a parking fine man or a persistant Avon lady.

“Why do you bother?”

“What is wrong with pale skin?” etc…etc..etc.

Um, haven’t you had one? If you’ve had one you’ll know you physically lose 10 kg when you look in the mirror. I’m not even being a sarcastic bitch. Ok I am, but I’m not at the same time.

All those weird and unattractive parts  of your body magically disappear.
The cat scratch from 1992 – gone.
The famous bike stack of 2003 – a distant memory.
The prepubescent stretch marks you’ve been BioOil-ing for the last 10 years – absolutely covered in a thick sheet of tanney goodness.

But best of all, is the wierd confidence boost. You suddenly become your most hilarious and courageous self. Every ounce of amazingness and confidence you ever got from a good haircut, or a new dress or a compliment from a very attractive male is suddenly exuding from your glowingly-tanned-self.

Are you with me? Or are you one of my olive-skinned friends who doesn't need to bother? Stupid bitches. Sorry, I mean, each to her own I guess.