I feel I should tell you the following story to save you some strife/embarrassment/pride issues for the future.
Or maybe I’m the only one who attracts demoralizing activities like a moth to a flame.
And then blogs about them.
First, there was the treadmill.
Then there was announcing the treadmill situation to a room full of 800 strangers.
Then there were the Brazilians.
Now there’s the spray tan.
Now I’ve had a spray tan before, you get naked, spread some lotion on the rough parts, put a net on your hair and strike a series of Egyptian poses in a booth with a bunch of spray guns aimed at your bare pale flesh.
This last weekend I figured, “Hey! I’d like to buy myself a tan!” So I found a local joint in my new town, exfoliated and set out.
When she led me back to the room I went over the checklist in my head.
Lock on the door? Check.
DHA smell? Check.
Booth…check…wait….no sprayers…NO SPRAYERS IN THE BOOTH.
no check….NO CHECK!!!
Just then the nice lady informed me that I was to strip down to my underpants, position myself just so in the sprayerless booth, knock on the wall and she’d come back in.
SHE’D COME BACK IN.
SHE WAS THE SPRAYER.
HER. WITH EYEBALLS.
My face drained of color and was then replaced with a pink flush.
“Um, so, I feel like I should introduce myself since we’re about to, well, you’re about to see me really naked. Hi. I’m Casey, I like to take pictures, I have a few tattoos. I like cats more than dogs. I used to be fat!”
She was even more embarrassed that I had no idea that she was going to be the one doing the work.
I never even found out her name.