I meet up with little miss Barnett for Sunday lunch on a beautiful, sunny day at the plough at huddlesford. Along with a just stepped out of a catalogue summer outfit (Barnett is one of my most stylish and wardrobe focussed friends), she is also sporting the most glorious, rich, golden tan.
I must know where she got it.
“It’s a combo of a couple of sessions on the sunbed and a fake bake spray on” she advises.
After tutting for several minutes about the use of sunbeds, we move on to the most important thing: that spray.
I need it in my life.
I’m not sure how I’ve lived without it up until now.
I stop at Barnett’s for the weekend and talk comes back to ‘that’ tan.
She offers to spray me, an offer I am so eager to accept that I have stripped off before she’s even finished asking the question.
The process seems impossibly simple: I stand on a towel while she sprays my arms in long, flowing movements leaving a beautifully fine coat of rich, golden tan. I waft my arms around to dry them and the process is repeated.
It is perfect.
I think I am Gisele.
Three weeks and six shops later, I give up hope of ever finding the tan myself and Barnett gets me some.
I skip to the bathroom, place the obligatory towel on the floor and prop a full length mirror up on the toilet.
I begin to spray.
Despite my best imitation of the long, flowing movements that Barnett used, I appear to be covered in patches of tan. Beautifully coloured patches, yes. But patches all the same.
I grab a tanning mitt and buff it in. Sorted. I go for another coat. And achieve more patches. I diligently buff. I turn around in the mirror and spray on more patches to cover up the white patches that I missed. Then buff.
It is a patch-and-buff-athon of epic proportions.
Exhausted and a little traumatised from what I had expected to be a simple and painless process, I glance around the room.
It is covered in tan.
Each and every surface in my bathroom is coated in a fine layer of pinkish spray.
No buffing required.
Just a full and comprehensive clean of every inch of the bathroom and every item in it.
Later that evening I attend my newest and most favourite gym class: boxercise. Elegantly dressed in a skin tight, bright white sports top, I thoroughly enjoy beating the living hell out of my opponents’ mitts along with having my own human punchbag experience when it is their turn to be Rocky.
Feeling elated with the immeasurable levels of serotonin flooding through my brain, I glance in the mirror at the boxercise machine that I have become.
Looking back at me is a profoundly sweaty woman.
Wearing a skin tight, bright white sports top covered in sweaty lines of bright orange tan that have melted through her top from her freshly bronzed skin.
I bet Gisele doesn’t have these problems.
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