The subway seemed fuller today, as we are back to having our regular days con inmigrantes. It was apparent who had participated in marches and human chains yesterday. The spark of the eyes and the slightly elevated posture revealed a touch of pride which radiated as a healthy glow. Or maybe the glow was from the good tanning time outside yesterday.
Something that has eluded me for a lifetime is a good tan. The northern German genetic combo dealt out skin that just doesn't go many shades beyond the pale. My natural state of "Homespun" may move to "Dubois Tan" but really nothing beyond "Honey Crystal", while longing to be "Coin Gold" or even "Sombreros".
Accepting my outer whiteness took forays into a variety of products. Just out of college and in an "Executive Training Program", my first foray occurred with Clinique bronzer. The product spread on nicely and created a nice even "September Song" appearance. Leaving for work that hot July day in Atlanta, my mind was already playing the compliments that soon would be mine on that Monday morning. A sudden thud interrupted those fantasies. Having to change a tire in the heat of a 90 degree morning tarnished them. Removing my shirt to deal with the heat and seeing the orange-brown stains covering the top half tousled them. Showing up two hours late, with a new shirt and a face in streaks of bronzer brown and tire black devastated them. With god as my whiteness, I'd never use bronzer again.
Years later, with self tanners being all the rage a second attempt to join the brown brigade began. Having researched all of the magazines available (this is pre-internet), a quick trip to Saks put Clarins in my pocket. As per the instructions, exfoliation came first, then self tanner was applied to a test area. As that had worked out nicely, the lotion was applied. Everywhere. Really, everywhere. Having spent so much time applying the lotion the hands (which really should be washed immediately after application) had already set with knuckles in a most interesting shade of "Saffron Flame". Knees, elbows, and all "bendy parts" took the same shade. So several days of that hot summer were spent in long sleeves and pants.
Finally, two years ago, a friend bought me membership to a tanning salon that featured the new "spray-on" tan. This actually worked rather well, the first time. The color was natural in appearance and, by not wearing the hairnet, actually created an interesting hair color as well. Having been pleased, it was time to go back for a second coat. Where the first application had been on a mild, dry day, this second was on an unusually moist day. Sweating immediately after application causes striping so to avoid this, 15 minutes in front of an airconditioner would theoretically set the tan and lessen the probability of perspiration. This plan worked fantastically. Until the downpour. Or, as they say in the south, gully-washer.
So this summer, as my skin radiates a gorgeous shade somewhere between "Homespun" and "Buttered Rum" unrequested recommendations will come to me from self-assuring sources regarding the perfect product for me. To which my eyes will not roll. To which my nod and smile will come naturally. To which my reply will not be filled with snark. My politeness will remain, but on the inside will be the knowledge of my past forays into these products and the acceptance of my own skin, finally.
