300(ish) Words on Spray Tans

My spray tan is faded and congealing in dark brown spots around my collar bone, and I couldn’t be happier. It reminds me of the good times I’ve had with it, and that is priceless. A few weeks ago, I New Year, New Me’d and got a spray tan with a group of women called the Ladies Who Spray Tan. I was invited and it was very special to me. 

I felt like a glowing sex kitten in the way I wanted to feel when I was 16, but 28 is OK, too. I stripped down to just my cheap black thong and was blasted with ice-cold dihydroxyacetone (Google tells me) from Katie, the spray tanner. This happened in California, which 16-year-old me would have really liked. Now, I want to be fake-tanned all the time because even in fluorescent lighting your skin looks nice, and you don’t see very many things wrong with it. 

With these sorts of topics, I’m tempted to research, say, the history of spray tans to inject some sort of concrete into things. But spray tan thoughts, like spray tans, aren’t meant to last and neither should most things we put out into the world. It’s a reflection—a bronzed, ephemeral one—that makes you totally gorgeous and/or trashy in that moment, and I can’t ask for much more than that. 

The lines that a spray tan leaves, if you wear a thong, are simply too sexy. People who see them are deeply turned on by the hint that your underwear could be there. Less is more, and more is Spring Break baby!!!! Tan lines sing Britney Spears songs and look great in A’gaci dressing rooms and pour tequila in its bodily crevices, and I can’t ask for much more than that. 

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