A recent trip to the beach left me greedy for the tan that my desk job simply doesn't afford me the chance to maintain. I came back from a few days in the sun with a golden glow, and I just didn't want to return to my former pallid self. So I marched right over to the neighborhood CVS, where I proceeded to purchase the knock-off brand of the above product (mistake number one).My first attempt was conducted while I talked on the phone (mistake number two). The result? Ankles that looked like they'd spent some serious time in a pit of mire. Even after several showers, I just looked dirty.
For my second try, I hung up the phone and focused on an even application. I even allowed for a longer drying time, staying in my room until I was good and dry (mistake number three). When I finally did emerge from my room, I realized that I had missed the short window of opportunity to wash the residue off of my hands. The dark spots in the webbed region of each finger lasted several days. Not to mention the unfortunate stripes on my arms.
Will I ever get it right? I'm not so sure. Will I ever fool the masses into believing that my color was actually earned and not just painted on? I doubt it. But, I'm party to blame for that. Every time I get a comment on my "tan," I'm quick to reveal my secret, flipping my hands over in surrender, unveiling my shortcomings. I can't not. I'd just feel like a cheating liar to simply let a smile spread across my streak-tanned face and accept the compliment.
I have noticed lately that I'm pretty up-front with my flaws, my faults, my vulnerabilities. As I throw my splotchy hands up in the air, I admit that I don't have much to hide.
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