blog entry

Dare to be Fair

or if you can't, just fake it

“Can you wear those whites after Labor Day?” my boyfriend teased, playfully giving my bare leg a squeeze. It was Saturday evening, and we were headed back from a long day at the lake.

While he and the rest of our lake crew had pink noses and shoulders, my skin was still an almost transparent white. (I wear SPF 85, and I reapply OFTEN.) Unless an albino is present, I am always the whitest person in the room.This is normal for me, and at this point in my life it’s become intentional.

I haven’t always had this kind of relationship with the sun. When I was a teenager, I spent countless summer days frying my epidermis with exotic, tan-enhancing oils, and I wasted a small fortune on visits to the tanning bed. I knew it was “bad” for me (i.e. skin cancer and the threat of wrinkles), but at seventeen I (stupidly) had an “I’d rather look good now than be pretty when I’m old” attitude...

(Fast forward seven years, and the “pretty when I’m old” part is suddenly a LOT more relevant. )

I first stopped sunning one summer in college (thanks to the super-strong acne drug I was taking), and it was then that I realised just how many freckles were beginning to emerge beneath my fading tan. I started to notice sun spots on the faces of older women that I had never noticed before... they were life-long sun worshippers, and if I continued down the path I was on, I would share their blotchy fate. A doctor also found malignant melanomas on my father’s face, ears and back, and he had several painful surgeries to remove them. That scare sealed the deal-- I was done with the sun.

Since then, lots of my girlfriends have kicked the habit too (though most of them can’t commit to their natural hue). Still, spray tans are MUCH better than the alternative, and now we’re all going to be much prettier (and healthier!) when we’re old.