So you should know by now that I’m prone to do somewhat crazy things with little preparation: Trying out for the Navy Seals, taking chemistry as a 37-year-old undergraduate, entering the World Series of Poker.
Now you can add getting a spray-on tan to that list.

For most, that wouldn’t be such a stretch, but I’m trying to win a contest here, and I had to find the cheapest, quickest option among an indulgent array of spa services that I could complete today so as to enter the contest by the deadline tomorrow: Hello, $10 Lunch Break Spray-On Tan.
Not being one to partake in paid grooming services all that often, I was a little skeptical when the ride operator asked me to put a plastic bag over my head, spread lotion on my palms, disrobe completely, step into the doorless cylindrical booth, press the green button, close my eyes and follow the broadcast instructions.
Fearing the fate of over-tanned orange douchebags everywhere, I closed my eyes – but not too tightly to avoid unfortunate creases – and pressed the green button.
ASSUME POSITION ONE, commanded the tinny recorded voice from above. Palms facing back, elbows out to the side, I tried not to scowl wrinkles into my cheeks as a blast of cool mist rippled past the plastic bag on my head, across my face and down to my toes.
ASSUME POSITION TWO, FACING RIGHT. The pose resembles “Walk like an Egyptian” (The Bangles, Different Light, 1986) – one arm up in front, the other down and back, legs split, facing right.
ASSUME POSITION THREE, FACING LEFT. Same song and dance. Same cold blast of brown wetness.
ASSUME POSITION FOUR. Face the wall, legs spread, arms out. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to look like a leather-skinned personal injury attorney, you have the right to wash this shit off in five days, but first you’ll go the next five hours without a shower.
REMAIN IN POSITION FOUR. THE DRYING CYCLE WILL NOW COMMENCE. Except that it’s not the warm blast of air you’re anticipating. It’s cold and it starts at your ankles and moves its way up to the plastic bag over your head.
PLEASE TURN AROUND; ASSUME POSITION ONE TO COMPLETE THE DRYING CYCLE. And I can assure you, this is actually colder.
THANK YOU FOR GETTING YOUR MAGIC TAN. EXIT TO THE LEFT. GRASP BOTH HANDLES TO AVOID SLIPPAGE. PLEASE DRY YOUR FEET UPON EXITING.
According to the ride operator, I am not orange – I’M GOLDEN. Actually I’m sticky and speckled and I smell like teriyaki, which makes me either an orange chicken or a sweet-and-sour porker. I have five hours before I can shower. I’m wearing a pink fuzzy twin-set – and I can feel each fiber affixing to my paint job.
The good news is, when I met a client after work for a drink, she looked at me and says, “Wow! Did you just get back from vacation? You look so refreshed and tan!”
I did not pay her to say that, as I was busy furrowing my eyebrows (and tan lines) in trying to figure out why the tips of my thumbs turned brown when my palms did not (uneven application of prophylactic lotion).
I made it home at the six-hour mark and started up the shower. Ever the observant husband, Pat noted that though I was golden brown like the Colonel’s New Recipe Un-fried Chicken, the White Stripes are more than just a rock and roll band: They’re also the illusive zones that your spray-on tan can’t reach – aka, the creases in your knuckles and your buttcrack.
As the luscious brownness washed down the drain like a good day of muddy mountain biking or two-day old Chinese takeaway, I was wistful that the ride operator did not instruct me on White Stripe prevention because the tan looked pretty authentic except for my neglected natal cleft. Based on personal experience (Bare As You Dare 5K, 1997), I can say with absolute certainty that your buttcrack will burn with prolonged exposure to the sun.
So the prize for this contest is a weekend spa vacation – and fortunately for me (and the Spray-On Tan Industry) – it is not a clothing-optional retreat. Will let you know if I win.