Faking It

Who knew a self-tanning session could cause friction in a relationship? Certainly not me. That is, not until my boyfriend turned my back into a Jackson Pollack painting.

“What. Did. You. Do?” I asked, darting my eyes back and forth between him and the body painting disaster that was on my back. I had exactly 15 minutes before I had to leave for work.

“If I put a football in your hand, would you know what the hell you were doing?” he replied, implying proper self-tanner application is a talent reserved for women.

Still looking over my shoulder at the finger painting mess reflected in the mirror while the clock ticked away, I wanted to tell him I at least understood the concept of the game. Instead, I handed him a wet washcloth, put myself in the frisk pose against our bathroom wall and shot him a look as dirty as his hands (directions: wash palms thoroughly with soap after applying).

We had to start over with the St. Tropez Shimmering Bronzing Mist. Again.

Not all self-tanners cause couple’s feuds, though. A few days earlier, the boyfriend and I created a little beach getaway right in our own bedroom.

The lamp on our tall dresser acted as the blazing sun. He didn’t know it, but the boyfriend was the cabana boy. This time, after I perfected the front of my body with the Fake Bake self-tanner and handed him the bottle, things went much smoother.

The manufacturer of Fake Bake must have had people like my boyfriend in mind when they developed the product because it couldn’t have been easier. The color and texture of the lotion resembles chocolate pudding, but the heavy chemical smell definitely doesn’t. Applying such a dark lotion onto my holding-on-for-dear-life-to-June’s-tan skin made streaks and missed spots easy to detect. It also made for one pleased girlfriend and one proud partner.

Both of us marveled over the glowing goddess I’d become. His immaculate work made my Coppertone bikini lines look like I had them bronzed.

Per the directions, I slept with my new tan and woke up with the same healthy, non-cancer threatening glow. But as I showered, I watched the glow run down the drain. After I dried off and looked in the mirror, I wasn’t nearly as impressed. The goddess disappeared and left a distant cousin with half her color behind.

It might sound bad but, to be fair, the distant cousin at least stayed a while, three days to be exact. And, unlike the goddess who put the “Fake” in Fake Bake, people could believe her. Plus, once I got a taste of the frustration most self-tanners inspire, I decided Fake Bake was pure genius.

After our third application of the St. Tropez Shimmering Bronzing Mist, I started to wonder if a turtleneck and pantyhose would pass as fashionable during monsoon season. The spray dried faster than my boyfriend’s hands could move, which when tackling my entire back, left more than just streaks. I had blotches, drips, drops and other “artsy” designs on my back and calves. My untanned skin and the tinted parts clashed about as much as NFL quarterback Michael Vick and PETA. And, the “shimmering” properties left a body glitter effect. Might be nice when headed to Pure but not when you’re running late for work. Who better to blame than the one who made me look like this?

After a good 15-minute yelling match that involved attacks on athleticism, coordination and painting skills among other things, I decided an apology was in order. Still waiting for my human ode to Pollack to dry, I told my boyfriend I was sorry. I gave my best, “Let’s not let the self-tanner come between us,” apology and he gave me silence. I couldn’t blame him. The poor guy generously offered his cabana boy services. All he had to show for it was a pair of orange-stained hands and an ungrateful, discolored girlfriend.

Luckily he eventually forgave me but St. Tropez will never be welcome in our home again.