Browning and Whitening

I have a confession to make: I am tanorexic.

For more than ten years now I have been a regular frequenter of tanning salons, requiring a weekly or every-other-week fix of artificial sun to keep my naturally olive skin from delving too far into its natural greenish-yellow undertones. When I'm not tan, I look sick. Or maybe just ugly. But I'm far too vain to pinpoint the exact color line at which I go from looking like a human being to something that has risen from the dead, so for all intents and purposes, I tan.

Yes, I know how bad it is for me, but no, I can't stop. I started as a freshman in college - that very first week, perhaps. Dorm life meant that people would be seeing me at all hours, without makeup, and I am far too considerate a person to inflict my pale green face upon these strangers without reason. So I started for that. And then I got into working out. And the idea of looking at pale white arms and legs in the wall-to-wall mirrors was again, too much to inflict on my fellow gym rats. It was really quite selfless, you see.

During this time, though, I realized that the tanner I was, the less makeup I had to wear. And that was nice, because I saw far too many other girls with streaks of foundation running across their chin, two shades darker than the color of their neck. I needn't worry about blush looking like warpaint or like I'd been attacked by bronzer. Nope, one tan a week and I'd be out the door with lipstick and a swipe of mascara - as easy, breezy, and low-maintenance a girl as you could get.

I may be addicted, but I'm not crazy. I tan only enough to get color; not so much that you'd mistake me for a leather handbag or confuse me for my mother (who is also a tanner and looks quite good for her age despite it.) Heck, I still get carded 80% of the time. If I learned anything from my summers at the Jersey shore it's what I DON'T want to look like, and every time I hit the tanning beds I ask them to set it only so long that I don't look like I've been tanning. Because tanning's bad. And I work in the beauty industry, so not only do I know how bad it is, I am also a big hypocrite. A big, bronzed, glowing hypocrite who usually credits store-bough self-tanner for any apparent glow I may get called out on. (I keep a year-old bottle of Neutrogena on my shelf just to back that up, and for the odd occasion when I can't hit the beds.)

I recently switched to a new tanning salon, one that offered more beds and longer hours than my former one. And they offer something I've never seen before, something so L.A. I burst out laughing. Teeth-whitening while you tan! Ask about it at the front desk! Apparently, the same UV rays that turn my skin brown and bring me closer to cancer can also do wonders for whitening my teeth when paired with some special product. If anything, I thought this was something that should exist in New York, the multitasking center of the universe. But no, here in L.A., everyone it seems is happy to remind you that - even when you're looking your best - there's always room for improvement.

I would have inquired, but the guy was on the phone when I left, and well, even I have a limit on self-indulgence. I wasn't quite ready to go there just yet. Maybe next week.