Skin Deep

I'm tan.

Not naturally, mind you, but at this very moment in time, I am a deep, lustrous shade of chestnut. It's probably the darkest I have ever been and I've been drawing the stares of far more pale folk hither and yon. It's a tan even the immortal George Hamilton or - oh, hell, let's reach for the stars - Zonker Harris would appreciate.

And it's not a good thing.

In the words of Ricky Riccardo, let me 'splain. I am a fake baker. Yes, I have been cheating and going to the tanning salon. Do they even call them "salons" anymore? Anyway, I find myself going three, sometimes four times, each week. I think I am developing an addiction.

Group Leader: "Everyone, we have a new member. His name is Kevin."

Everyone: "Hi, Kevin!"

Me: "Any cute chicks in here?"

Spare me the lectures about the pre-cancerous lesions, bulletproof skin and developing more cracks than a Don Rickles Joke Camp. I know these things, just like I know a loaded cheesesteak at two in the morning is one of the worst things a human can do to himself. But, I'm still going to order one...with fries, most likely. I am hoping this is a fad and will soon pass just like most everything else I have undertaken, like flossing, flushing and obeying local traffic laws. But the opportunity to look better at the sacrifice of a measly few decades off my life feels like an even trade at the moment. It also makes you look healthier. Oh, I could elaborate on that statement, but why not let Hall of Fame pitcher, Whitey Ford explain:

"When we showed up for Spring training, if you were out of shape, all you had to do to convince the coaches you were IN shape was to get a tan."

Strong words. Powerful words. And they came from a man named "Whitey." While the Irony Police are firing up their cruisers to mass around my perimeter, I have to say I agree with him. It's at this point of the program where I'd like to introduce you to someone. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you - The Exception To The Rule. I call her "mom." My mother is in her 60s, she's a full-blooded Italian and she is STILL a knockout. She also has been on the competitive tanning circuit since the early 1970s - maybe even before. Even in the darkest bowels of Winter, mom has always had the most savage glow. Some would point to her decades as a rib-cage model for an X-Ray machine company, but mom has been a natural tanner all her life. She wouldn't go near a tanning bed unless it was made of chocolate. And now, a word from mom:

Mom: "Hello."

Isn't she great? Mom has the natural color of a Hershey Bar whereas her son (me) makes albino musician, Edgar Winter, look like Darth Vader. I realize I am half-Irish (along with a paella of other nationalities from the Continent), but come on, man, in my "natural" state, I'm whiter than the dance floor at a country club wedding when "The Electric Slide" is playing. I have perfected the art of the forearm burn and the rosé band that goes from cheek to nose to cheek. It makes me look ridiculous, maybe less-than-intelligent. All I know is, when I sit on a bench at the mall, strangers throw nickels at my feet. You be the judge.

I am currently a paying member at the Peace of Mind Tanning "salon." Currently, there is only one and it is located in the Limestone Hills Shopping Center (I think that's what it's called), and no, I did not perform that shameless plug in order to secure a free membership...although, if the owner is reading this, I'm not above charity.

I've always been a little weird about going to one of these places. Like you, I've heard the stories of hidden cameras watching you in your stage of undress. That's why, in my first half dozen times, I tanned while wearing a full suit of armor. I eventually became brave enough to do it the proper way, although I think I'll pass on tanning naked. It's not so much I'm worried about burning the sausage; rather, it's more of a fear of being served with papers for causing mental duress in whomever is operating the spy camera in the room. Besides, certain parts of me I'd rather keep smooth and soft. I prefer buttery leather to a leathery butt.

There's something strangely erotic and sickening when slapping the lotion on before hopping into the ultraviolet oven. The embarrassing gassy sounds from the half-empty bottle, the wet smacking when rubbing your hands together, the homoerotic practice of oiling yourself up and the strange tingle you get on your short hairs when you turn on the massage pad (hey, I go high-end). I turn the bed on to "Extra Crispy" and slip into my neon sarcophagus. Yeah, I know it's not neon. I just LOOK stupid. I'm in there for the full 16 minutes, and after the first eight minutes, I roll over like a month-old clumsy hot dog in a convenience store warmer and flash-fry my dorsal (that's what we call the back, in the tanning biz). After I'm done, I get dressed and head out to the car, glowing so intensely you could read a five-font Bible in the darkest jungle during a new moon if you passed within 50 feet of me.

Now that I've shared more of me with you than you ever wanted to know, I sheepishly admit I re-upped with the "salon" today for another month. I feel good and even though I'll never match mom for sheer caramel brilliance, I have to admit - in my own self-loathing way - I look pretty good...for me. I may not be healthy, but at least I look like I am.

Just ask Whitey.