I’d like to think I’ll try anything once. (Here’s the point where stee shouts “Woo-hoo!” jumps up from his computer and starts making a list of all my female friends, ranked in order of hotness.)
So when Hilary called a couple of weeks ago to ask if I’d be interested in getting a fake tan with her, I waited until she said she’d pay for it before I agreed.
I’m a pale girl. Writers don’t usually get to spend that many hours outside, and you know, the sun is bad for you. I wear sunscreen. And jeans. But eventually I’ll have to get these pictures taken that will be seen for the rest of my life, so that makes you start thinking crazy thoughts about yourself. Like: “I wish my hair would be longer by the wedding. Maybe I should wear extensions.” Answer from my stylist-adjacent friend: “Are you nuts? Those would cost eight hundred dollars, and you’re just going to pile them up on top of your head anyway.”
But Hilary gets me thinking about the fake tan, to which Liz responds, “Brides are crazy. My other friend who’s getting married is about to try the same fake tan. Nobody wants an orange wife, Pamie dot com.” Continue reading