I'M NOT ashamed to admit it. It's no secret. I've been known to dabble on the dark side from time to time. Loads of us do it. But 24 hours before one of my best mates' 30th birthday bash is not the time to be battering the bronzer.
I am in trouble… forgot to get a spray tan.
Now maybe this would not be so important if the spring had bothered to make an appearance, or if the sun had allowed me to dress without at least six layers of clothing.
Sadly, whatever sun there has been I must have missed while washing up. Anyway, the point is I cannot be seen in my backless cocktail dress without a bit of colouring in.
I send The Man to Boots. Mistake number one.
I love The Man and much as he has many strings to his bow, being any kind of fake tan connoisseur is sadly not one. So when he couldn't find my usual brand, he settled with fake tan simply written on the bottle. Considering it has taken me years to perfect the home tanning process, the last thing I need the night before a party is to play guinea pig. But as the only option to transform my body from milk bottle white to glowing bronze beauty is tan in a can, I have no choice.
Therein lies mistake number two. Giving in to desperation.
I prepare my skin by washing it. Hardly the usual exfoliating lark but it will have to do. I think.
I forget to moisturise (which any hardened tanner would be horrified by!) and go in for the kill. Blobbing out and slapping on as much of the stuff as I can. Paleness to Perfection. Off to bed I waddle.
Morning of the party arrives. I of course have forgotten about the previous nights bronzing. It's only once out of the shower I realise the extent of my tanning faux pas. Using a white towel to dry myself I notice my feet. Working my gaze up to my knees, the blood drains from my face but funnily enough, not the colour.
I've gone from ultra peaky to mega streaky. Neither a look that I was attempting.
I have also somehow missed on the instructions (obviously did not read) the longer the lotion is left on the darker the tone. Fantastic. I resemble a badly varnished fence post patchily shimmering in the sun. Yum.
A frenzied scrubbing attack takes place over the next hour. Leaves me not only still looking like a grubby mess but with added sore patches of red to compliment the damaged look.
I spend the evening dancing with my back brushing the wall and only standing still in the darkest corners.
If I thought going pale was a fail, going brown sure has let me down.
Tan from a can? I will be sticking to a tan ban.
