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tanorexia (n.) to be completely, and perhaps obnoxiously, obsessed with bronzed skin. To be “tanlicious.”
Friends, I did indeed bring you something back from my glorious trip to Turkey and a few Greek islands, but you’re going to have to invite me for a cocktail to receive/view your gift. You see, I brought you back a wicked sweet tan.
For the first time in my life, I actually listened to the admonishing words of my traveling companion, a dermatologist, and put on sunscreen. (Flashback! 2007. Scene: Venezuela. Burn victim: my forehead. Result: swelling enough to transform me into a Klingon.)
I finally came to terms with the ozone and realized that no, I can’t sit out unprotected in the sun for hours and not end up a lobster. This is after about 155 attempts and 2 gallons of aloe vera burn relief. Stupid global warming.
Why have I put myself through such torture? Why not hide like a red-headed, Irish-blooded ghost in the shade? Because being tanned is awesome. It’s like wearing a hot, full-body suit all the time. Legs look slimmer and more toned, your face gives off a warm, healthy glow, and if you wear anything white, it looks so crisp and perfect it shouldn’t even be obtainable. (Flashforward! 2028. Scene: the dermatologist’s office. Skin victim: my face, back, arms, and shoulders. Result: holes and sutures everywhere.)
What was once made popular by the style set and Coco Chanel is now becoming an endangered ritual and pretty much as bad for you as chain smoking. Luckily, the self-tanner industry has been making strides, not streaks, towards oompaloompa-less products. But, as many of my brown-stained clothing items and the remarks of onlookers will attest, they aren’t perfect yet.
Nonetheless, I’m not letting the tanning fantasy fade. If they can tattoo on make-up, maybe one day we’ll be able to permanently dye our bodies.
Until then, I’m showing off my bronzed bod. Give me a call and you, too, can bask in my glow.
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