So in my quest for eternal beauty I decided to treat my milk bottle body to a once over, to a splash of colour that didn’t originate from crayola.
I went to get sprayed…
Now I am a born again virgin to spray tans, it was years ago that I last had one, which was wet, sticky and didn’t last that long so I am not entirely sure it counts as a cherry stealer. So I wasn’t completely sure as to what to expect…
I went to get one for a confidence boost, to try and look better, to feel ‘sexier’.
I left with a healthy glow and but I forgot to pick up my self esteem at reception.
Flipping Nora, getting sprayed is a revelation.
First you get naked. And I mean naked.
No one has seen me naked in years, we stopped doing it with the lights on after the kids came along. It wasn’t a body confidence issue it was just neither of us can be bothered to get up to switch the light off post ‘mama papa’ time. Sleep is crucial with three kids and if you have already sacrificed some of it getting jiggy with it, why waste precious snooze moments padding to the light switch and back.
Anyway I digress.
So I got naked.
The (very lovely) woman did me the kindness of not shrieking in horror and clutching at her eyes when she turned to face me, although she did squint at my bosom, turn around, pick up my bra and handed it back saying “perhaps keep it on if not your tummy will be more white than brown.”
‘Oh to be pert’ cried my inner blushing soul.
She then handed me some paper pants which covered a good ten percent of my bikini line and pronounced us ready.
I stepped into the spray tent fighting the horror flashback from camping that I always get when I go under canvass and turned to face my painter.
Delightfully she had positioned a mirror in front of me so I could see the change.
Wrong, very wrong.
I quickly discovered spray tanning is like sex, if I don’t watch myself I can convince myself I look damn good participating.
The bastard mirror doesn’t lie.
For ten excruciating minutes I followed a boot camp style set of instructions.
The (very lovely) lady took on a Hitler style tone and commanded me to configure myself into positions that he who helped create them would swear in court I couldn’t achieve.
And she made me do it with my eyes open.
Now I am happy to be disproved but I am pretty sure in that book “50 things to do before you die“, page 62 doesn’t say;
‘watch Jane Blackmore squat with her hands about her head, palms out, arse up, wearing paper knickers a size too small which have snagged a little whilst another woman fires brown gunk on her.’
Yet both myself and the (very lovely) woman will both go to our death bed with that image burnt onto our eyelids. To make matters worse I spent the whole tortuous time holding in a spot of wind which meant my face was caught in several unflattering grimaces throughout the entire procedure (looking forward to seeing those lines tomorrow).
Then it ended, with a hosepipe blowing warm air on my slightly orange very naked figure.
It ended with me glowing, mainly from embarrassment but you get what you pay for as they say.
Let’s say I didn’t quite achieve the goal of sexier…