Spooning (29 page)

“No!” I told myself firmly. “I am broadening my horizons. I am a woman of the world! Tanned, toned thighs are something I want for me, not for Mr. J. P. Morgan.”

H
e had, however, gotten me thinking about my lack of a base tan. Everyone knows that it's important to acquire a base tan before you head out into the sun. Besides lathering yourself with SPF 15 sunblock, you should always prep your skin with slow exposure to Mr. UV Ray. He is relentless when it comes to the burning department and it is important to take preventative measures. So the night before we left on our big spring- break adventure, I decided to get a jump on the tanning process. I couldn't go the fake-and-bake route because the lights in the tanning bed irritate my skin (I'd had a totally bad prom experience after a visit to the sun-bulb gods). So I decided to give the whole spray tan thing a whirl. Although it's always a dead giveaway during the winter months, I figured that I had the perfect excuse to try it since I was going to Puerto Rico in the morning.

Luckily, I got the last appointment at Sun Sensation, a place down the street from our apartment that had five new spray machines. It was pretty reasonable too, only twenty bucks for each of your first three visits. Cheap and chic! I got
there about five minutes early and when I arrived the place was packed. Twenty dollars per visitor times fifteen waiting white bodies plus the five already spraying equals a multimil- lion dollar idea. I needed one of these franchises! (Note to self: Am getting suspiciously math-minded like dear old dad.) I checked in and the young girl at the front desk handed me a surgical-type mesh cloth cap and a pair of matching booties.

“Um, what are these for?” I asked her.

“Oh, you've never spray tanned?” She responded snidely and quite loudly. What? Had everyone in NYC spray tanned? Yes, judging by the crowd I'd say so.

“Um, yes, totally. I mean I've done it before. I've, um, just never done it here,” I replied. Shit. I'd just lied to this girl about spray tanning. What was I thinking? Who the hell lies about spray tanning? But, whatever, how hard could it be? Undress, walk in, press button and spray. Voilà! You're in, you're out. No big whoop.

After signing the release form, I turned around and noticed a dozen sets of curious eyes staring at me. Totally self- conscious, I grabbed my spray tan gear and took a seat on the couch. As I was waiting for my big moment, I took the time to inspect the different types of tans that were in the room. What kind of tan was I looking for? Dark, medium, light? Rumor on the street was that these machines have a setting button or something that lets you pick the type of tan you want. Well, the first thing I noticed was that there were a couple of veteran “sprayers” in the house. The guy and girl next to the door were sporting really good even glows. Both their faces and legs were nicely bronzed with a real-looking tan! Not bad, I thought. That would be a nice color to kick things off in the Rico. Moving across the room, I then spotted a few others who looked
like they had just a hint of color. They obviously took the less- is-best approach. They were sporting more of a faint cocoa- brown kind of color and it looked pretty good.

I took on my Nancy Drew persona and bent to tie my sneaker. Once at a lower level, I inspected all the exposed knees—one of the spots that will give away fake tans at a quick glance. None of their knees were too dark. Good. I roved over behind the bench. What about inner arms? One girl stretched and I saw she was a tad bit paler on the inside than on the outside of her arms. Don't like that look at all …

“Charlotte Brown?” The young girl snapped from behind the counter.

“Yep, that's me!”

“Room six. Down the hall and it's the last door on your right.”

As I got up and gathered my tactical spray gear, I happened to catch a quick glimpse of two women who were chatting it up over in the corner by the television. These women were straight out of the “spray tanning gone wrong” pamphlet. Now that's what I did not want. They were flat-out, no-joke Oompah Loompah orange. Did they think they looked good? I wondered. Clearly they must if they were here getting sprayed again. As I walked down the corridor to my room, I was beginning to have doubts about my little endeavor. Was it worth it? What if I turned out like an Oompah Loompah? Was it light, medium, or dark that I wanted? Should I bag it and just take it slow in the sun once I got to PR? No, there was no turning back now.

Once inside the room, I figured I had nothing to lose. Worse-case scenario, if I didn't like how it looked, I could go home and scrub the stuff off. Right? I proceeded to take off all
of my clothes and meticulously put on my booties and cap. After a once-over in the mirror to make sure my hair was securely inside the mesh casing and my toes were properly covered, I decided it was go time. Damn dimples! I opened the door and stepped inside the tiny two-by-four contraption. On the outside, it sort of looked like a phone booth. Pretty unalarming. But once I got inside, it was a completely different story. It felt like I was in one of my high school gym showers. The floor was a wet and it smelled like raw bacon. I couldn't see out, but I felt like someone could see in. Needless to say, it was sort of creepy, but I figured it was worth it for the cause.

I closed and secured the door and proceeded to look for the on button. I searched all over, but there was only a little green light thingy to the left of the door. Should I push that? Or did it go on automatically like those toilets that flushed when your butt moved? There I was: alone, naked, cold, and confused. After five minutes, I accepted the fact that I was an idiot for not asking for explicit instructions and decided to just push the green light. That had to be the right button. Right? And before I could say “right,” the machine started to rumble and shake. All of a sudden, a giant burst of air followed by a wet concoction began to stream out from all over the place. This warm, wet bacon-smelling shit was hitting my butt, my face, and it was even invading my crotch. Nothing was off limits. I tried to protect my face from the direct line of fire and in the process my mesh cap flew off.

“
Heeeellpppp
!” I screamed. “Somebody, turn this machine off! It's attacking me,” I pleaded from inside the spray monster's lair. Every time I tried to open my eyes to find the door handle, a gust of spray would attack. This thing was on the offensive and there was no end in sight.

“For Christ's sake, could someone please turn this thing off? I beg of you!” It was apparent that no one could hear me down the hall. Maybe they were all outside the door laughing at me. I assumed the “duck and cover” position and helplessly waited like a wet rat trembling in the subway corner waiting for the enemy to retreat. This thing had me by my cap and booties. And then finally, it just stopped. There was no more rattling, no more spray, no more nothing. It was absolutely dead silent.

I opened my eyes and couldn't see a thing. It was like the bomb had dropped and dusted everything in its path. I crawled around on my hands and knees in search of the door. I was hacking like a cat with a fur ball lodged in its mouth. Determined to find the door handle, I frantically skimmed the walls and stumbled across the latch on my last attempt. Once the door was open, a giant cloud of brown smoke billowed out and into the changing room. The dust quickly disappeared and it was time to assess the damage. I walked over to the mirror as the remaining spray tanning remnants settled onto the carpet.

Once again, Mr. Mirror revealed something that was so horrible, so ghastly, that I burst into tears. Holy shit, I was a f'ing Oompah-Loompah!
Noooooo
! I instantly reached for the stack of towels on the counter and frantically began to rub the stuff off.

“Is everything okay in there?” the young girl called from the other side of the door.

Oh, shit. Think, Charlie, think. “Yes everything's fine. Sorry, minor confusion. Um, the door got stuck. Out now! No problem. Thanks though.”

After six towels and a couple gallons of spit (Note to self: Never be the mom who uses her own spit on her kids.), my fake tan slowly seemed to be coming off. The towels were saturated
with the brown substance and my body appeared to be regaining its normal creamy color (yes, my opinion had changed—I was creamy, not pasty). Later on, I would find out that what I'd just done with the towels was what spray tanners called the blotting phase. If I had only asked for instructions at the beginning, I would have known to wipe my body with the towels in a circular motion in order make sure the product was blended evenly. Mortified about the entire experience, I quickly threw on my clothes and ran out of the place.

When I got back to the apartment, I went straight to the shower in order to wash any other spots that I might have missed. After scrubbing myself raw with a loofah and some apricot scrub, I slipped on my robe and went straight to bed. Thank God it had only cost me twenty bucks. So I'd have four fewer beers or one less buffet brunch in PR. No big whoop. But what was that yeasty bacony smell? The stench was sure to be a male repellant in Puerto Rico. Good going, Charlie! As I fell asleep, I rationalized that the worst was behind me and that in less than eight hours I would be on a plane headed to paradise. Rico here I come!

“
L
adies and gentlemen, please prepare for landing. Make sure your seat belts are securely fastened and that your seat is in the upright position. We'll be landing in approximately twenty minutes at San Juan International Airport. Welcome to Puerto Rico.” The divas were in flight!

“I am so excited,” Macie yelped from behind her work portfolio.

“Can ya put that work away now? Our destination is in sight!” Tara scolded from behind her issue of
Cosmo
.

Wade gushed from the window seat behind me, “It's soooo beautiful. Palm trees swaying in the breeze, waves lapping at the shore—”

“Those waves are sucking that sand like I am going to be sucking some gorgeous Rican's toes!” Tara laughed.

“Those piña coladas are gonna go down nice and smooth,” Sydney chimed in while putting on a fresh coat of lip gloss. “My goal is to see how many of those cute little umbrella drink thingamajiggies I can collect this weekend.”

“Ah, such lofty goals,” sighed Tara. “Girls, we've got some heavy-duty dancing to do. And I'm all about finding a forbidden lover.”

“What about you, Charlie?” Macie asked.

“Um, you know, I just want to relax and read and stuff,” I said.

“Hey, you've been awfully quiet the entire plane ride. Is everything okay?” Macie asked.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I'm just really into my book,” I said with my best poker face. “It's a how-to book on planting the perfect summer garden. The Diva wants us up to speed on the newest garden designs from Paris and London, so she bought the entire staff this must-read. Fun, Fun …” I cracked a smile and burrowed my head deeper into the pages.

“Aren't you going to be hot in that bulky sweatshirt and wool pants?” Wade asked as she reached in between the seats to inspect my one hundred percent wool wide-leg black pants. They were the bottom half of the DKNY pants suit my mom had given me for Christmas, not typical resort wear for a tropical destination. However, it had been cold in the city when we left.

“Sweetie, you're totally going to sweat your ass off when we get there. You'll be dripping the minute you step off the plane,”
Macie confirmed from across the aisle. She began to rummage through her duffel bag and pulled out a tank top.

“Here you go!” she said. “I always carry the essentials in my duffel just in case they lose my bags.” That was Macie for you—always prepared. Whatever you needed, she most likely had it in that bag of hers. Water? Check! Tweezers? Check! Tampons? Check! Luna Bar for nutrition? Check! Adorable hot pink tank top? Check!

“Thanks, I'll put it on once we land,” I said. That should hold them off for a little bit. Once they found out what was lurking underneath my sweatshirt and wool pants they were going to die. Ugh!

The brochure had said that the El Juan Hotel was only about a ten-minute cab ride from the airport and that upon arrival you'd be greeted with a tropical beverage. There had been three crucial requirements when we planned the trip: First, it had to be cheap. Second, it had to be easy to get to. And finally, it had to offer a plethora of free fruity drinks. Having so far met all of our criteria, we were six happy babes en route to a fabulous adventure.