“Tan? Now?” Celia points to a banner in the window of the tanning salon.
Change your outside to love your inside.
“I hope no one paid money for that slogan.”
One minute later Celia and I are standing in the reception area of the South Beach Day Spa and Tanning Salon. Nearby a row of girls who look young enough to be cutting class flip through teen magazines and chat. Behind the wall of glass bricks flanking the reception area, colorful shapes move through a fogged kaleidoscope.
“Did you say Mrs. Tal-bot?” The receptionist’s eyes couldn’t be wider.
I nod.
She cuts her eyes to a young woman standing nearby, who is also openly staring at me, then says, “O-kaaaay.” She pushes a button and announces, “There are a Mrs. Talbot and a Mrs. Duffy here for spray tanning appointments.”
I wonder only briefly what that was about. Too nervous to sit I survey the menu of services on the wall that includes manicures, pedicures, facials and wraps. And, of course, tanning options.
I’m just wondering what sort of “options” there are to tanning when Celia says, “Oh, that’s what I want.” She points to a menu item: Double Hot-Action Dark Tanning.
“You’re a beginner, Celia. Think Gwyneth Paltrow and Julianne Moore.”
But she’s not listening. She’s picks up a flyer and reads. “Hot Action, also known as Tropical Heat, Skin Stimulation and Tingle, uses a combination of ingredients to increase the microcirculation of the skin, which increases blood flow. The hot-action lotion uses tan-extending walnut oil to produce an instant, Intense glow.”
“Intense glow? That doesn’t even sound normal, let alone safe.”
She flashes me a grin. “We’re not here for safe. We’re here for that outside to match our adventurous insides.”
“You obviously haven’t seen the unadventurous inside of my wallet.”
“My treat!”
Before I can form another way to say N-O, a young woman, this one in a shrink-to-fit tropical-blue smock that barely covers the tops of her bronzed thighs says to me, “I’m your hostess, Lili. Follow me, please.”
She pauses in a hallway of doors and says to Celia, “Did you bring a swimsuit?”
Celia nods and produces one from the depths of a purse the size of Pennsylvania. Since the twins were born, all her purses are the size of Pennsylvania.
“You may change out of your day clothing in here into a robe and shower cap. In the shower stalls you’ll find exfoliating cleanser to use to help prepare your skin. Dry yourself really well before you put on your suit and goggles.”
When she turns to me a big fat grin stretches my face. “I can’t tan because I didn’t bring a swimsuit. Or goggles.”
“We provide goggles. You have the option of going into the spray booth in the nude.”
“Not in this lifetime.”
She gives me a quick up and down. Her expression says she agrees that my shelf life for public nudity has expired. “We have disposable paper suits available, for a small fee.”
“She’ll take it.” Celia dares me to contradict her.
In spite of my anxiety about the paint job to come, I’m enjoying the idea of more pampering. Ask any woman of any age from any walk of life: self-affirmation can be most easily accomplished by a pampered hour consumed by such things as toenail length and shades of polish.
Five minutes later Celia and I are standing in a mint-green dressing room area, having exfoliated from chin to heels, putting on our suits. The locker room is a room away, and the cubbies provided for dressing don’t have curtains for privacy. I guess the thinking is if you’re vain/proud enough to tan it, you’d want to show off what you’re working with.
“What do you think?” Celia’s swimsuit bra top is a good fit. The low-waist boxer briefs make the most of her ample hips but hold in only part of her tummy. She puts a hand on the pooched-out leftovers. “Baby-making fat. I’m thinking lipo next year, after I lose another ten pounds. Good idea?”
“Maybe.” At the moment I have worse problems.
Who decided a halter top made from what seems to be quilted paper towels could contain a real woman? One breast keeps sliding out of its triangle section while the weight of the other tests the elastic bandeau meant to stop it from slipping out underneath. The panties? It barely covers the lawful essentials. My cheeks are on their own.
Our hostess sticks her head in the door. “Okay, first one ready?”
Before I can answer, Celia’s out the door. As I fiddle with the strings that claim to adjust hip exposure, the door swings back open and two young women enter.
One glance over my shoulder reveals a pair of deeply tanned but un-sun-kissed babes in micro bikinis, the kind you only see in ads for Australian beaches or Brazilian wax jobs. They are also wearing shower caps and heels.
One holds out a slender arm to the other. “Does this look like a Brazilian tan to you?”
Her whole body is the color of maple furniture; who can tell? But I turn quickly away. They weren’t speaking to me.
I hear her companion reply, “You look a bit toasty around the edges.”
The first one sighs. “They say it will take several hours for the full effect. Still, I expected, well, you know. More.”
The way she says this, I visualize beluga on toast triangles, chilled Dom, an ocean view and live violins.
I sidestep back into one of the dressing cubicles, hoping they will just ignore me. Now, not only do I feel sallow-complexioned and under-exfoliated, even my pedicure screams amateur. I’m a self-made woman in this spa-day world.
“Oh, look, a newbie,” says one of them in a stage whisper. The reason that must be so crystal clear is because my pale June-moon posterior is turned to her.
Moving closer to me, she says, “Hi there. You will want to go slow the first time in a tanning bed. You’re really untan.”
“Thanks,” I mumble without turning around. “But I’m getting a spray job.”
“Should you tell her?” murmurs the other one. “About the, you know, uneven affects spray tans can have on aging skin. How it streaks in sagging areas?”
“No, that wouldn’t be kind.” Muffled giggles accompany this as they drift into cubicles to change out of their suits. “But I’ve seen what inconsistent coverage can do. The poor woman looked like she had a disease.”
I suspect I’m being baited, even if they are whispering, but the partition blocks the nasty look I toss in their direction.
After a moment of silence one says, “Have you bought your wardrobe for Santa Fe?”
“Not everything. It’s so hard to shop now that I’m between sizes. I saw these really cute capris at Bloomies.” Big sigh. “But they were a size four, and positively bagged in the crotch. To make up for my bad mood, I bought two pairs of Michael Kors sandals, a gold-leather flat and wedgies with turquoise stones up the front.”
“Oh m’god! I saw those. They cost a fortune.”
“That’s right. But I earn it.” There’s a muffled exchange and more giggles. “Teddy just loves my new abs.”
“Ten days at a spa in New Mexico. You’re so fricking lucky, Brandi!”
My head jerks up. Teddy? Brandi! “Oh…my…God!”
I step backward out of my cubicle just as she does, and find myself looking dazedly at a face and body that accelerates my heart. It’s….