When I go on vacation, I take my tan very seriously. I work hard to achieve that perfect healthy sun-kissed glow, ignoring the fact that “healthy sun-kissed” is in fact an oxymoron, particularly when melanoma runs in your family. As I’ve gotten older, I have, of course, become much more responsible about this practice, because I understand that a super-dark tan looks far less sexy on a 32-year-old than it does on a college student. I also understand that when I lay out for hours roasting in the sun, I am slowly poisoning myself. I’ve actually always understood this, but recently I’ve become less comfortable with the idea of a shorter life span in the name of temporary beauty. It’s called maturity, people.
All that being said, I fucked up in Mexico. I forgot that Mexican sun is 60 times stronger and more orange than normal sun (FACT), and I got too much of it. I’m too tan. I am WAY. TOO. TAN.
Unfortunately, I had scheduled a first date for the first night I was back in NYC (last night). But I was feeling super self-conscious about my tan. I polled my friends and they all agreed that no, “too tan” is not an acceptable reason for a functioning human being in society to cancel a date. I begged to differ, so in a desperate attempt for back-up, I texted my friend Gabi, who had been in Mexico with me and knew exactly how too-tan I was. But even she agreed I had to still go:
So it was settled. I sent a pre-emptive warning text that went as follows: “I feel it’s necessary to warn you, Kevin, that I have never been this tan in my life. I am too tan. No one should be this tan.” The following exchange then ensued:
Ok. Phew. Settled. I felt much better that at least he knew I knew I was too tan. That was much better than him sitting there thinking, “I bet she thinks she looks great, but she is too old to be this tan. How sad for her. And society. And the world, really.”
I did what I could with makeup to calm the orangey glow but it was no use. I sighed, accepted my fate as the too-tan 30-something, and left for the date.
When I arrived at the bar, he took one long look at me and, genuinely confused and 100% serious said, “I don’t understand. You’re not even tan.”
Oh NO. HE. DIDN’T.