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It started innocently enough when I was a teenager. A warm summer day at the beach, a bright sunburn, and then the glow. Once my skin looked tan instead of beet red, people commented on how "healthy" I looked.
A suntan rapidly fades, however, and before long, the compliments on how "good" I looked faded, too. It didn't take me long to grasp the connection between the attention and the sun. Not wanting to lose this newfound beauty booster, I began basking in the sun regularly in our backyard. Being a novice, I used baby oil and water to help me tan quickly, but this concoction offered absolutely no protection from the sun's rays. After an exuberant four hours in the sun, I not only literally glowed, I radiated! My skin was on fire, and for several agonizing days, even my eyeballs and ears hurt. It was excruciating just to wear undergarments.
I learned a painful lesson: Tanning was an art that required diligence. I observed others who were tan and followed their example. Of course, as with the baby oil and water, I should have skipped some methods such as slathering on cooking oil. (You'd think I'd have learned!)
Before long, I was scheduling my entire summer around the best sunning times. If the sun was out, I felt obligated to be in it. Soon, I discovered which colors of clothing looked best against my tan skin. Receiving compliments became addictive. Being tan made me feel special.
But, I admit, I was relieved when school resumed, and I could be free from my rigid schedule. I enjoyed winter without the pressure of being tan. That is, until the girls who went to Florida for Christmas vacation returned with unseasonal tans. I was jealous that they looked so "healthy" while I'd been stuck in the cold, snowy Midwest. In order to keep up, on any unseasonably warm day, I'd lie out in the sun. Many times I froze as the cold northwestern winds bitterly swept across our yard. But I just had to get a jump on my summer tan. Although I knew my parents loved me, they were both extremely busy with their careers. Gone most of the time, they weren't home enough to recognize the beginning of my habitual behavior.
This kind of behavior went on long after high school graduation. My whole life was scheduled around sunning. No noontime lunches with friends, unless I could do it early or late enough to still tan. All activities were rearranged to fit my fixation.
Once I married, I thought I could stop this ritual. I assumed having a husband would boost my self-esteem. Unfortunately, my insecurity about my looks drove me back into the sunshine. I even looked for jobs that allowed me to be home in the afternoons to tan. When my husband joined the Air Force and we moved to Alaska, I felt immediate relief. Finally! I won't feel any pressure to get a tan, since no one else there will have one, I thought. Once there, I was able to resist my obsession—until I visited my home state of Ohio. People there expected me to be tan. They made remarks such as, "You don't have your beautiful tan anymore." I'd take their comments as criticism, and soon I'd be out in the sun again (which was a little more challenging in Alaska).
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