The scene is 1994: I am 12, and come to understand my adolescent capacity for total ugliness and mockability by other 12-year-olds. Having quasi-translucent skin in April when I could be wearing shorts doesn’t help. Wait, who am I kidding—this is Massachusetts, and April is freezing. But I am still going to wear these damn shorts.
Because I can’t tell the difference between “advertisements” and “bullshit” and “stuff you really need”, I unquestioningly accept that an easily-applied lotion can solve my problems without having to actually go outside and bask hypothermically in the thin sunshine.
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| WOW! This is perfect and has no capacity to go wrong whatsoever because Teen magazine says so! |
I happily purchase and apply said tanner, dreaming of the inevitable popularity that will find me the next day at middle school.
I wait the appropriate amount of time for the stuff to develop, then check the mirror.
Unfortunately, I acquire a shade of yellow normally found only in turmeric and egg bagels. Furthermore, the tanner soaks into my knuckles and knees more heavily than everywhere else and I appear to be rusting away at the joints.
The next day at school, my self-tanning fail is gleefully pointed out to me, and no one asks me for a prom date. And you can still see my leg veins.
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