Fifty shades of white: My quest for a tan

A New Jersey mother with not much common sense in her bronzed noggin recently made headlines when she was accused of putting her 5-year-old daughter in a tanning bed. If you watch TV at all you’ve seen the “Tan Mom” in all her glory looking as if someone has smeared brown paint on her face and body.

The super-tanned mom claims her redheaded daughter got sunburned from playing in an outdoor kiddie pool, not from lounging on a tanning bed. One would ask here if she’s never heard of Water Babies sunscreen with SPF ratings of up to 100.

The ordeal, of course, has rekindled the discussion about the safety of tanning beds and whether a person can be addicted to tanning. Some have diagnosed the mother with “tanorexia.”

Being a fair-skinned Scandinavian, tanning has always been an elusive thing for me. I usually describe the hue of my skin as different shades of fish-belly white. I’m probably only a couple of degrees away from being an albino.

In short, I’ve never been tan; I’ve only been burned. And it’s a lesson I learned the hard way.

Like most teen girls of the 1970s, I glorified those who showed off their bronzed arms and legs in the halter tops of our day. But one particular incident cured me of tanning for good.

It was the last day of class my sophomore year at Moorhead State, a spectacular May day, hot and sunny. My two roommates decided on an afternoon of tanning, so I figured why not? I should note that one of my roommates was an olive-skinned brunette; the other gal had been working on her tan for weeks. I was winter white.

We spread out one of those foil blankets that were popular at the time and slathered on baby oil — not sunscreen but pure unadulterated baby oil with not a speck of sunscreen — and laid there for two hours.

I hadn’t been back at our apartment for long when I began to feel really dizzy and a little nauseous. I called my mom, who lived about 35 miles away, and told her what I’d been up to. Then I passed out, apparently in midsentence, leaving the phone dangling by the cord.

The next thing I knew my mom was there, scooping me up and hauling me to the ER, where I was diagnosed with sunstroke.

By the time I left on a trip to Europe a few days later my back was blistered and peeling. It was a miserable trip across the pond. I’ve never forgotten the agony.

In recent years I’ve developed an allergy to sunscreen, which I discovered about four years ago after kayaking across Lake McGregor one hot summer day. The rash that developed on every body part to which I’d applied the sunscreen was red and itchy for more than a week.

These days I’m content to garden in long sleeves and my floppy garden hat. I sit in the shade.

It’s interesting to me that even with all the warnings about skin cancer and the damage too much sun exposure can do, there’s still a lure for many to “work on” their tan and soak in the sun. Tanned bodies still are considered by many to be more attractive than white bodies. Luckily, I made my peace with a pallid complexion long ago.

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by e-mail at lhintze@dailyinterlake.com.