Ron's Blog

I often refer to myself as an old, bald, white guy. But “white” does not truly describe the tone of my skin. If I were paint, my color would be Pasty Alabaster with a touch of Eggshell to lighten me up. When I look in the mirror, I’m reminded of Bill Murray’s line in the original “Space Jam” movie. Referring to Larry Bird, he said, “Larry’s not white. Larry’s clear.”

That may best describe the depth of pigment in my skin.

So, it follows that I don’t really tan. Oh sure, one summer I worked on a road construction crew and was in the hot sun every day. I tanned that year. In fact, I was so tan, no one recognized me. But two weeks after coming home from that job, my natural ashen tones bubbled back up. 

Now to be clear, even though I don’t tan, I do burn. As a young adult, I remember vacationing in Hawaii and rather than being bothered with slimy sunblock, I chose to let my skin protect itself. This was such a bad idea. Before the the week was over, I got sunburned where my already-sunburned skin had peeled. I’m pretty sure that I should have sought medical attention but I was youthfully irresponsible about the entire experience. 

Today, as a survivor of metastatic skin cancer, I regret that I allowed myself to burn so many times when I was young. But I’m not here to discuss the pros and cons of sun exposure. Instead, I’d like to focus on a related topic: Why do we care so much about tan skin?

When you look back a few hundred years in history, almost all caucasians were chalky pale. Somewhere along the way, however, someone decided that pale was not as attractive as a bronze or umber. The problem with this shift toward tanliness is that it has influenced everything from fashion, to advertising, to preparations for beach week. And it’s been that way for a while. In fact, I fell prey to this shameful obsession as far back as elementary school. Let me explain.

When it came time for our seventh-grade dance, the ever-popular social event before we all moved on to high school (we didn’t have middle school), I felt that I should add a little color to my complexion so that I’d be more attractive to potential dance partners. But, the event was held in February so natural outdoor tanning was not practical. So, I hatched a plan to tan artificially.

My sister owned a sun lamp. Apparently, she had once considered the value of year-round tans as well. If you’re not familiar with this ancient device, it was the miniature version of the commercial tanning bed. It held one large bulb that emitted more radiation than a small nuclear reactor and was supposed to be a safe way to tan at home. I’m not sure how one bulb would tan an entire body but since I would be wearing a fetching leisure suit to the dance, I just needed to darken up my face. 

So, I set the lamp against some books on my bedroom desk and brought in a lawn chair to simulate the feel of a seaside resort. The sun lamp’s instruction sheet was long gone so I determined, using my own made-up calculations, that sitting for twenty minutes would be a reasonable start towards a nice Caribbean-esque skin tone. I did not have a timer but my sister did have a Three Dog Night album and the first side was just over twenty-two minutes long. Perfect. I shut off the ceiling light (no need to overdo it), turned on the sun lamp, cued up the album, and “let the sun shine in” (OK, not a Three Dog Night song but at least from the same era).

As I sat there, it felt as if the lamp was not as hot as I expected. I was afraid it wouldn’t give me the results I wanted so I moved closer and closer until my face was about six inches away. At this point, you’re probably wondering how I was ever capable of running a successful business without causing significant injury to myself or someone else. That’s a great question that baffles me to this day.

After the last Three Dog Night song ended, I turned off the lamp and considered the job well done (literally). Then, I sat back and imagined the “ooohs” and “ahhhs” I would hear when I strolled out onto the dance floor looking like I’d just returned from a week at the shore.

One thing you should know. Even though I was a good student in seventh grade, I did not really have a grasp of scientific principles like the Laws of Thermodynamics. I didn’t quit understand heat transfer. However, it only took a short time for my education to begin. I believe it was roughly seventeen minutes after I shut off the sun lamp that the first blisters began to appear. I ran to the bathroom mirror. My face was the color of a cranberry while the texture looked like a lychee fruit (look it up). I had clearly put myself in a dangerous situation but worse than that, I would now have to explain what happened to my parents, my friends, and everyone at the dance. If only there had been a solar eclipse that day. I could have explained it all away by saying, “I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to look directly into an eclipse.” But alas there had been no eclipse. I had to just swallow my pride and accept the fact that I looked like someone who had recently emerged from an explosion at the chemical plant.

Needless to say, I didn’t dance at the dance. My face had partially peeled by the night of the event and I suspect that most people steered clear of me in case I was contagious. It was humiliating on many levels and was not a good beginning to the challenging years of adolescence.

The reason I share this episode from my life is that it’s important for us to evaluate the stupid things we’ve done in our lives so that we actually learn something from them. When we look in the rear-view mirror, we see how our intentions were often misguided. For instance, instead of worrying about how tan I was, I should have worried about how bad of a dancer I was. The last thing that should have concerned me was my natural pale beauty. Today, I have no problem when people shield their eyes from me. It reminds me that I’ve maintained my health by not exposing my skin to dangerous UV rays. I think that’s good progress.

So, whenever I feel the urge to do something because it will make me more attractive or more popular, I remember my seventh grade dance. Then, I reset my thinking, change course, and put on a Three Dog Night song.