J.P.M: What up?
Holy shit! Where had he come from? And more important, what kind of question was that? Text messaging could make an Ivy Leaguer sound like a dunce. What kind of update did he really want? Was he asking about my well-being or my dating status? Did a mere two words warrant a real juicy answer or a curt, clever reply? Was he looking for a loophole to worm his way back in or was he trying to be the “nice” ex by keeping sporadic communication going?
I sat for a moment pondering how to respond—if I responded, that is. I chewed my lip. Maybe I'd better just ignore him. After all, he'd barely mustered a hello. But what if he had something important to say—an apology perhaps? I thought hard, and then it clicked! The perfect reply.
Snoopy: Going to Puerto Rico with the girls.
Ha! Let's see what he says to that! I was moving on. I was a jet-setter leaving his rose-strewn ass in the dust.
J.P.M: Don't you burn easily?
What the hell? He hadn't even known me last summer during tanning season! Did he just assume since he had seen my Irish self in all its buff glory that he knew my melatonin level? How could he so easily have twisted my fun news into something that grated against the very fibers of my being? Good God, wait until he saw my tan! (Note to self: Determine at later date if he deserves to see my tan.) Or, was he simply being concerned about me?
Snoopy: No worries. CVS has aloe on sale in economy size. Will be fine.
Would I be fine? I jotted down a note to myself to visit the drugstore and a psychiatrist. Somehow, after only six words, Mr. J. P. Morgan had me obsessing again. Was I really taking this trip because I deserved it, because New York winters suck, because my body needed pampering, and because I wanted time with the girls? Or had it been fueled all along by a sense that I wasn't good enough, that I needed to be hotter, thinner, tanner, for the next time I bumped into my now ex at Top Shelf?
“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.”
He 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 atta
ck. 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!
“Ladies 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.
Wade assumed the shotgun position in the front of the cab so that she could work on her Spanish with the driver, while the rest of us sat in back and soaked up the scenery outside the windows. The sun was shining and the windows were open, allowing the warm air to blow against our smiling faces. Syd was hanging out the window like a dog in heat, Puerto Rican heat that is. As we sped along the busy highway, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I could feel the tension in my body begin to melt—along with my now-soaked shoulders inside my sweatshirt.
“Buenos dias. Me llamo Wade.” Good God, Wade had assumed the persona of a tour guide. She held the PA microphone in the front of the cab like a pro.
“You know, the one and only J. Lo's family is from the Rico,” Sydney called out as she reached up and grabbed the mike from Wade.
“It's fate. We can all forget our dimpled asses and flaunt our delicious booties at the pool.”
“My looovveee don't cost aaaa thinggg …” we all sang in perfect unison as the cab sped down the highway.
About fifteen minutes later, as we drove up the windy entrance to our hotel, we all decided that our first order of business was to get our bathing suits on and hit the beach immediately. An adorable bellhop first escorted us to our junior suite, then gave us a tour of the compound. As we passed by two big funeral parlor–type wooden doors, he told us that the nightclub that lurked behind them was one of the best in the San Juan. Then he led us outside along the seashell-strewn path and pointed to towers of beach chairs. As we stood gaping at the ocean-filled horizon, still clad in our NYC apparel, he demonstrated the genius of the beach chairs' design. Each was rigged with a little white flag on the back of the headrest.
“All you have to do is raise this flag,” he began, flicking up the flag with one finger to show us how, “and a waitress, they're the ones you see in the blue and yellow shirts, will come to take your order.” We all glanced at one another, at the ocean, at the beach chairs, and at our hands. Apparently we all had the same vision—a Venuslike waitress emerging from the s
ea to bring us endless rounds of drinks, all because she had been signaled by this white flag. I surrender, I surrender! Sheer brilliance! This hotel deserved another star just for this flag contraption thing. So far, so good.
Some of the girls immediately pranced off to soak their toes in the water while Macie, Sage, and I plopped down on our beach chairs to soak up the first of many rays.
“Charlie what a fantastic idea,” Sage said. “I can't believe we're here. This is unreal.”
“I know. This is exactly what the doctor ordered,” I sighed.
“Hey, get those pants off. Here, I brought SPF 30 sunscreen if you need any,” Sage said.
“Oh, no thanks,” I replied hugging my still wool-clad legs. Sage began to strip and lather her skinny little body. She then plugged in her iPod and lay back with her eyes closed.
“What's the matter with you, C?” Macie asked as soon as Sage couldn't hear. “You've been acting strange ever since we left JFK this morning.”
“You really, and I mean really, want to know, Mace?” I asked seriously.
“Totally! I mean, of course,” she said in a more somber tone. Her expression went from eager-beaver expecting some illicit sex tale, to concerned mother anticipating a heart- wrenching phone call.
“And you promise not to say anything to the rest of the girls?” I asked even more seriously.
“Promise,” she said with her right hand in the air.
“Okay, here you have it. I went spray tanning last night to get a jump start, and well, it didn't turn out quite like I thought it would.” And before she could reply, I rolled up my pant legs to reveal the disgusting evidence. My body was infested with tons of uneven orange blotches. They were all over my legs, my arms, and my stomach. And the area that had been hit the hardest was my crotch. Of all the places on my body, it had received an unusual cluster of dark splotches. No joke, I looked like a leopard with an STD. As if I needed to give prospective guys any more ammo not to go down there. One look at my spotted crotch and they'd run for cover from this beast.
Spooning Page 19