I reached a turning point in 2007 when I decided it was time to stop putting my health at risk. It was a remarkably quick decision, made in the span of a phone call and a few scribbles with a blue pen. It astounds me to this day how such a significant decision took mere seconds—less time than it takes to heat up a frozen meal. While others agonize over purchasing the right car or the perfect hairstyle, I simply walked away from 20 years of tanning obsession as easily as turning off the faucet in my kitchen sink.
I grew up in the era of Teen magazine and Tiger Beat, where trends dictated that big hair and sun-kissed skin were essential. With my fair complexion, green eyes, and reddish-blonde hair, I had none of the sought-after bronze. But oh, how I longed for it. From the age of 12, I would gather my lawn chair, baby oil, and portable radio, searching for the sunniest patch of grass to soak in those rays. I’d flip every half hour, like a chicken roasting on a spit, determined to achieve that coveted tan. Friends reassured me, “Don’t worry; the red will turn to tan.” For me, though, the red just brought pain and faded into disappointment. Yet, I persisted.
Little did I know, I was conditioning my skin to tolerate more sun exposure. As I transitioned from baby oil to Hawaiian Tropic tanning lotions, I was still chasing a dream that proved elusive. After starting college in 1992 and getting a job, I began visiting tanning salons. Despite hearing horror stories about the dangers of tanning beds, I let my desire for a bronzed look overpower my caution. At 18, I frequently laid in a tanning bed, surrounded by bright bulbs, convinced that this was the answer to my problems.
Over the years, my tanning sessions escalated to three or four times a week. By 2007, I was tanning from February to October, relishing every minute of those 20-minute sessions. It was more than a habit; it became an addiction. I had a deep emotional connection to the smell of tanning accelerator, which I cherished almost as much as the scent of freshly baked donuts. It’s strange to admit, but the aroma of my skin sizzling under the lights became a scent I nostalgically missed.
Eventually, my skin bore the marks of my obsession, with permanent tan lines that I wore like a badge of honor. Even motherhood—when my children were born in 2001 and 2002—didn’t deter me. I was a walking testament to my tanning success, with a sunburned face and shoulders, and what I convinced myself were just freckles.
Then, in a moment of clarity, my best friend Lisa pointed out a dark, horseshoe-shaped mole on my arm. I had never thought much about it, but her concern led me to see my doctor. A week later, the diagnosis was melanoma. Within days, I was undergoing surgery to remove the mole, leaving me with a scar and a wake-up call. I stopped tanning immediately, giving away my prepaid sessions and replacing them with sunscreen, at least SPF 30. I became a vigilant protector of my children’s skin, realizing the importance of safeguarding against sun damage.
Since that day, I’ve faced numerous skin checks and treatments, including four instances of basal cell carcinoma and Mohs surgery. It’s an uphill battle, but I consider myself fortunate compared to others I’ve met online who share their harrowing experiences with skin cancer. I’ve learned that my past choices led me to this point, and I’m committed to preventing further damage.
In retrospect, I was naive and misguided, but I’m grateful for my second chance. Now, as a mother of two teens, I encourage them to embrace their natural skin tones, ensuring that they’ve only ever known summers filled with sunscreen and safety.
In conclusion, my journey serves as a reminder of the consequences of vanity and ignorance. I’m pale, but I’m alive and thriving.
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