it's mystic

if you're an avid reader of hilary's blog, as you should be, you'll know that we went and got "mystic" tans on saturday. when andrea called to tell us that a) she fucking hates her job (a post-graduate student working as a pee-on at a tanning salon hating her job? what!?); and that b) she was passing out free tans like they were candy and her friends were strange children, hilary and i were in the car in less than twenty minutes.

when we got to the tanning salon, andrea informed us that we'd be using other peoples' accounts. before you become filled with righteous indignation, let me preface that by saying that the peoples' accounts we were using hadn't visited the tan stand for a few years. they'd forgotten that they'd bought packages of spray tanning sessions, so hilary and i merely reaped the benefits. or took advantage of them. whatever. my code name--the woman whose account i used--was alice buffert. we decided to call andrea "jennifer" during the session, because it sounds much more like a tanning salon employee than boring old "andrea." "andrea" is a classical singer. "jennifer" is a 19-year-old in her second semester of beauty school.

after watching the video on the right and wrong way to receive a mystic spray tan, i went into the booth to start my tanning adventure. as soon as the machine kicked on and started spraying me down like i was a 10 year old car at maaco, i promptly forgot everything i'd learned in the instructional video and started to panic. i couldn't breathe; i was certain that the tanning vapors, while turning my body a gorgeous, golden shade, were also giving me lungs to match.

since i forgot, in a matter of three minutes, how to properly position myself in the tanning booth, there's only one thing wrong with my fake tan, something that didn't rear its ugly head until this morning: my fingers and the edges of my hands are an abnormal shade of brown. it looks like i spent the weekend jerking off a giant brown crayola.

ah, the hazards of looking bronze and beautiful.