I am pale. By pale, I mean that strangers have wrinkled their noses at me and said, “Damn, girl! Get some sun!” Doctors have asked if I would like a prescription for PABA. Manicurists and Pedicurists frequently exclaim over my coloring, not in admiration. Small children have pointed out that I am unusually white, and that you can see an unusual number of my veins through my skin. I sunburn, but don’t tan. If I blister, when I peel, I am whiter where the skin is new. I do freckle, but even my freckles are a golden blonde. There is nothing dark on my body.
Growing up in a family of tan (or at least tanner than I) people, with cousins who turned the most beautiful rosy brown in the summer, and having friends who were generally glowing dark and golden, and dealing with the aforementioned commentary has made me very self conscious. Where I take solace in Nicole Kidman, and Julianne Moore, and Dita Von Teese, I also recognize that I am no wispy thing like these ladies. And let’s face it, cooked meat always looks better than raw.
But what to do? I don’t want to be orange. I don’t want to be sunburned.
Tomorrow morning I have an appointment for sunless tanning that is supposed to be natural looking and lovely. We shall see.
I’ll keep you posted.
