Tanning and Masculinity

I'm not going to lie. I went tanning. I actually paid $7 to lie/lay (?) for 20 minutes in this glowing, body-length pod, subjecting my skin to the perils of burning and cancer. And I did it willingly. I was not compelled. I was not forced. I choose to.

My reason: I have developed these "sun spots" on my shoulders and back, a bacteria that naturally lives in your skin but can emerge to the surface in tropical climates. The pigment is not working or something and the only way to restore a unified color of skin is to burn the top layer altogether. Hence the tanning bed. There.

I walked into the lobby and there sat the receptionist, a college-aged, blonde who was carelessly smacking away on some gum. The room was fortunately empty, except the several displays of lotions and oils, all identified with such names like "Edge" and "Sexified." I was already emasculated. I approached the counter and she asked, "Have you tanned with us before?" She had her hands in position on the keyboard, ready to type in my information. "Uhh, no. This is my first time. And I only want to go once."

"But that is so expensive. You can get the $20 package that allows you to go five times."

"Yeah, I only want to go once."

"Fine. Fill out your information." I picked up the pen and took the clipboard, seriously considering making up an entire fake identity. I looked at the names on the list above me. Surprisingly, some of them were guys. One was named Rodney. I felt that that name sounded fake. I didn't want people coming in after me and reading the list and seeing my name. Now I know that sounds a bit arrogant of me, like the entire city of Baton Rouge is going to know my name. But what if someone comes in that does know me? And the one time in my life where it would have been justifiable to lie and to forge an identity, I didn't. I wrote down the truth. I think I even gave my address and phone number.

So I'm escorted to this little room with this space pod in it. There was a fan and a chair. That was it. "Since this is your first time, only go 10 minutes."

"How high does it go up to?"

"20."

But I wanted to get burned. Surely 20 minutes wasn't going to do it. She left, I closed and locked the door, and got...naked. Well, almost. I kept my boxers on. There are some areas of my life that I don't want to get burned. I set the dial for 20 and climbed in to the glowing, xerox-looking-glow, body pod. I drapped a towel over my face and laid/lied (?) there. Kelly Clarkson was playing over the internal speakers. And I was given the next 20 minutes to be alone inside of my head and reflect and evaluate on what I was honestly doing. It was truly miserable. They shouldn't give you that much time to be aware of the fact that you are actually tanning. Insecurities run wild.

After a while, the lights shut off and I climbed out, searching my body for signs of red only to find the usual pale hue that was there before. I dressed, left and waited for the burn to emerge. And it did. Remember that towel I put over my face? Well, that left a nice awkward, sideways burn stretched across the front of my neck. The rest of my body turned into a nice reddish-pink by that evening, all except for where my boxers were and...my shoulders. Yes, that's right. The one spot I wanted to get burned didn't. I couldn't figure it out. I think it is because of how those machines are shaped, it tends to only tan your front and back and neglect your sides and your shoulders.

So, yes, I am planning on going back. Only this time I am going to lay on my side and let the shoulders get in on some of the action. 7 more bucks down the drain. 20 more minutes alone to evaluate how pathetic I am. And all for the expense of my sunspots and masculinity.