So I just started tanning. I had to. I fight myself every year (only for the past three) about whether or not I should do it. I know I shouldn't, but it makes me feel good. Goodness knows I'm a hedonist so I say, "Fuck it. I know that I will look good for the short term. Who cares about the wrinkles, and possible melanoma lurking just beneath the dermis?" Secretly I care, really I do. I get up each morning and poke at my face. "Am I getting wrinkles?" I poke, prod, turn my face many different angles and decide that everything is ok. Then I walk past my closet mirror and my ass is tan and I'm even happier, no--elated. Tan butt=small butt.

What is it about going into one of those booths (that incidently look like the teleportation pods from the 80's version of The Fly), with those purple UV bulbs (that I'm supposed to avoid right? that's what my sunglasses are supposed to be blocking correct?), the smell of my skin frying, sweat beading up on my body...why do these things make me smile while I'm in there?

Of course, as I'm putting my clothes back on my mother's voice resounds in my head, "If you want skin like mine when you're my age you better start wearing sunscreen and a hat." Maybe next year--but for right now, I think that this is how I'm going to welcome in Spring.