The Sun, The Beach, & Tanning Beds

I’m visiting the gulf in early August and I don’t really know why, but I think it’s because I love my grandkids, or didn’t look at a long term forecast. 

After a couple of hours on the sandy shores, I realize it’s a little of both. Love to watch the kiddos play in the surf. Hate to be in weather so sunny and hot that it makes me understand what a baked potato feels like.  

I’m a people watcher, and the beach is great for that. You see all kinds: fat ones, skinny ones, tall ones, short ones, people who lift weights, and people who do 12 ounce curls. However, there are two general categories that everyone falls into - tan, or not tan. And because of my hair color, I’m certainly in the latter. 

I have red hair, or used to. Now some of it has turned another color and some of it has turned loose. That’s ok, because I know red heads serve a very important purpose in this world. You see, God created red heads to make everybody on else on the beach look tan. To give you an idea of how pale I am, in high school I used Liquid Paper instead of Clearasil. I think if the shade of my skin was a Crayola color, it would be called Cadaver White.

There was a time in my vain, younger days when I desperately wanted to be tan. Because I’ve played golf most of my life, my head, arms, and legs got a little sun, but my midsection was the color of Elmers glue. So when I put on a bathing suit, I looked like a barber shop pole. However, modern technology came up with a solution to this problem - the tanning bed. It’s pretty much a coffin with ultraviolet bulbs, but the results were impressive. So without thinking, I immediately bought a season-long tanning bed package. It was time for the kid to get tan. 

If you’ve never used one, it’s simple: 1) go in a little room and strip down to the desired degree of nakedness. Mine was underwear, although some people went 100% au natural, a choice that could result in burns on some delicate areas, 2) put on eye protection, and 3) wipe down the tanning bed, lay down, and set the timer. I followed this ritual about four days every week. 

Soon, a cycle began to repeat itself: get in the bed, turn pink, peel.  A tan? No chance.  The only thing I got out of my tanning bed experience was a a boatload of freckles and an opportunity to be on a first name basis with my dermatologist.

Years later, I’ve found that the more things change, the more they stay the same. For example, now when I visit my derm, I go into a tiny room and strip down to my underwear - just like the tanning bed parlor. But instead of laying under ultraviolet light, I sit on an exam table - right after I put on a gown. And because of an embarrassing incident a few years ago, the nurse always reminds me that the opening goes in the back. I wonder if that’s on my chart. 

Soon, my ‘ol buddy  Doctor Jimmy (I’ve progressed to nicknames now) opens the door and greets we warmly. Of course, he’s never alone; instead, there are always 3 or 4 attractive female interns accompanying him. After a bit of small talk, Jimmy and his lead assistant begin carefully going over my bod while the others watch silently. I’ve always thought that this is what people who’ve experienced alien abductions must feel like.  

Of course, no trip to the dermatologist is complete without the liquid nitrogen treatment. I’d like to be the guy selling this stuff to them because they go thru cans of it like Joey Chesnut goes thru hotdogs. 

Before I leave, we make another appointment to visit again in six months, and I get my bi-annual admonition to  use sunblock every single day of my life. Which I do. I believe he recommends SPF 900 or so. I think I could stand on the surface of the sun if I’m wearing that stuff.

By now you realize that my life long dream of a deep, dark tan has finally faded away. But I’m OK with that now, because a dear friend let me in on a secret called The Law Of The Beach.  Simply stated, “There’s always someone that looks worse than you do”. 

Praise the Lord and pass the Coppertone.