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| ROCK LOBSTER |  | Category: Personal
Wednesday, February 2nd, 2005 @ 08:26 pm
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 Score:
Modern Tanning Bed: 1
Pasty Computer Dude: 0
Well, with a mild, but as far as I'm concerned, pretty henious case of psoriasis breaking out I decided to go to the doctor last week to see what I could do to kick this. His advice, along with his bill and prescription to an expensive name brand skin cream, was to try out a tanning salon. Apparently UV rays are pretty therapeutic for these types of skin conditions and he said he's heard quite a few success stories from patients with the same aliment clearing up after spending a day on the beach or similar activities.
Now most of you all know me and know I'm not the tanning salon type. In fact, if you were to ask me if I were interested in going to one a week ago, I would have probably told you that men that go to tanning salons are probably psuedo alpha-male business types named "Todd" who stop by to work on their tan between a round of sucking at golf and a tryst with their fat, ugly secretary with whom they are cheating on their fat, ugly wife. Needless to say, I view it as a highly narcissistic activity, and view those who partake of it (outside of hot women) with utter contempt.
But, after taking into account my doctor's advice, along with a realization after seeing a few photos of me pale to the point of looking straight up jaundiced out, I figured a little color might do me well. Brenda's been talking about getting a membership to a salon right around the house on Harrison, so I told her I'd be interested and she got us some memberships and booked our first appointment for Wednesday.
Well, we showed up, the girl behind the counter asked to see my goggles (which are apparently very mandatory in these places), instructed me as to what booth I'd be going to, then began to hassle Brenda for not bringing any goggles. This next part is up for debate, but whether I was given the wrong room to go in (my story), or misheard which one (Brenda's story) is neither here nor there. The point is I ended up in the wrong booth. As I shut the door I noticed this big monstrous device that looked kind of like a Port-a-let on steroids. I wasn't expecting a "stand-up" tanning "bed", but oh well. I was pretty worried when I saw the text "UV-Less Tan!" emblazoned across it, seeming as I was here to bombard my psoriatic ass with cancerous UV rays, but I was at least going to investigate before I wandered back out with a dumb look on my face. Luckily, I've seen an episode or two of Bravo's hit series, "Queens Help the Straight Guy Be More Gay," so upon opening the door (which was accompanied by a creepy female digitized voice asking me to step in or something) I noticed spray jets and immediately recognized it as one of those new fangled spray-on tan doo-dads. I started for the door when I heard one of the girls there shouting that I was in the wrong booth. I replied with a polite version of "no shit," left the booth and went to my correct room.
It was in this new room I was greeted with a regular old tanning bed, one which I felt infinitely more comfortable operating, which I was under the assumption I would be doing. I uncomfortably undressed and climbed onto the inactive bed and began investigating the control panel. There was a radio and two knobs, one unlabeled and one with labeling that wore off sometime around when Dynasty went off the air. I started twisting them in various directions to varying degrees when the thought occurred, "Hey, maybe it'll just come on when I close it! Christ, I'm smart!" I laid back and closed it. Nothing. Opened and reclosed it. Nothing. Then, when I was about to admit my shame and ask for help, it sprang to life before my very (un-goggled) eyes. I scrambled out to fetch the goggles, which produced a very convincing, and very loud, fart sound as my back released its suction on the bed, and returned for my heat-lamping.
It was odd in there. Time did not exist in this place. Someone left the radio on some crappy country station, but I was feeling too defeated to try to change it. It smelled like weird oils and burning skin. I began wondering if maybe I had turned it on somehow, and likewise was expected to turn it off. I was told I was going to be doing seven minutes. What if they forgot about me and I had been in there for 30 minutes? What if my organs were about to start boiling? Right about when I realized my entire body felt hot, the bed clicked off and I stood up to dress. When I stepped out, I realized that my ass was sunburned. Not just my ass but the entire back portion of my body. My pale Irish ass has become quite familiar with the distinct pang of sunburn pain and this was it, that hot, tight, itchy feeling. In seven fucking minutes.
After getting home and examining myself, I'm definitely burned, but not bad, and pretty much exclusively on my back and ass cheeks. Suppose I should have flipped over or something. Anyway, I suppose I'll be returning, but not until the sting of this burn dies down.
Until next time, this is George Hamilton, signing off.
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