In 2007, I made a pivotal decision to stop harming myself. It took just a moment to pick up the phone, a quick “Oh. Okay, thank you,” followed by a scribble on a notepad to schedule an appointment. Reflecting on it now, I’m astonished at how effortlessly I was able to make that choice. It took less time than heating a frozen dinner to end a habit I’d maintained for nearly two decades, with a fervent commitment for the past 15 years. While others deliberated for weeks over car purchases or spent ages scrolling through hairstyle options, I quit tanning as swiftly as I could turn off the running water in my kitchen sink.
Growing up in the era of Teen magazine and Tiger Beat, I remember sporting electric blue mascara and tight-rolled jeans above my pale Keds. Neon colors and big hair were the norms, and the quest for tanned skin was relentless. Despite my fair complexion, green eyes, and reddish-blonde hair—what my grandfather lovingly referred to as strawberry blonde—I longed for the sun-kissed glow that others flaunted.
Starting around the age of 12, every spring and summer, I would set up my folding lawn chair with baby oil and a battery-operated radio, seeking the sunniest patch on the grass. I’d lie on that sticky chair, arms and legs glistening, turning every 30 minutes like a rotisserie chicken. As time passed, I became more patient, eventually abandoning my frequent checks for progress. Despite turning red, burning, and peeling, the encouragement from friends kept me going: “Don’t worry, the red will turn to tan.” For me, however, the red was just painful and eventually faded away. But I remained undeterred, determined to achieve that elusive tan.
Unbeknownst to my teenage self, I was conditioning my skin with each sun exposure. The more I tanned, the tougher my skin became. I transitioned from baby oil to Hawaiian Tropic tanning lotion, yet nothing brought me the tan I desired. But in the ’80s and ’90s, being pale was far from fashionable.
After graduating in 1992, I started working while taking college classes and soon began visiting tanning beds. Despite my initial reservations—having heard tales of tanning beds being akin to cooking your insides—I gave in to my desire for that sun-kissed look. At 18, I began lying in a tanning bed once or twice a week, sweating in a pool of my own making, with bulbs radiating heat and light just inches away from my skin.
Years rolled on, and I found myself visiting the tanning bed three to four times a week from April to August. My skin finally cooperated, developing a tan. I sported a ruddy complexion on my cheeks and chest, and by 2007, I was using tanning beds from February to October, relishing every 20-minute session.
Many don’t realize that tanning can become addictive. When I say I loved tanning, I mean it in an all-consuming way. The scent of tanning accelerator was one of my favorites, rivaled only by that of freshly baked donuts. There was something about the aroma of coconut oil and the other ingredients that made the experience feel rewarding. Yes, it sounds morbid, but I associated that scent with achievement.
As the years went by, I developed permanent tan lines. Even after giving my skin a few months’ break, the damage was clear. I never considered quitting. Even after my two children were born in 2001 and 2002, I kept tanning, my skin a patchwork of red and freckles—evidence of my decisions. I had fully committed, with no intention of turning back.
Then, a life-changing moment occurred. A friend pointed out a dark brown horseshoe-shaped mole on my upper left arm. I hadn’t thought much of it, dismissing it as just another mole among many. However, she urged me to consult my doctor. Within a week, I was informed that the mole was melanoma, and I was promptly referred to a dermatologist.
In no time, I found myself with a wound that required stitches and months of care. My upper arm bore a scar that my dermatologist called a “dog-ear.” This was in 2015, and it’s taken years for that scar to fade.
That shocking diagnosis prompted me to stop tanning altogether. I gave away my remaining tanning bed visits and began using sunscreen with at least 30 SPF. I became vigilant about protecting my children’s skin, ensuring they only experienced summers filled with sunscreen rather than tanning oil. I had transitioned from a bronze complexion to a pale one, but at least I was alive.
My journey serves as a cautionary tale. Many people face far graver consequences than I did, and I often read heartbreaking stories of those battling severe skin cancers. While I count myself among the fortunate, I still face regular check-ups and treatments due to the damage I inflicted on my skin. I’ve had basal cell carcinoma multiple times since 2007, requiring Mohs surgery. Recently, I began using Efudex, a topical chemotherapy, to treat precancerous cells on my chest—an endeavor I wouldn’t have had to undertake had I not tanned.
Now, I advocate for skin protection and awareness. If you’re interested in enhancing your knowledge about fertility, you might find this post on fertility boosters for men insightful. For more information on nutrients that support reproductive health, check out this resource. Additionally, this site serves as an excellent guide for understanding pregnancy and home insemination.
In conclusion, I urge anyone considering tanning beds to reflect on the long-term consequences. It’s not worth the risk. Protect your skin and embrace the beauty of being pale. Life is far more valuable than a temporary tan.