A Tale of Pale
In case you couldn’t tell, I’m white. And I mean that in two ways: I’m Caucasian, and I’m also white as in … white. Pasty. Pale. A woman of non-color.
Here, let me show you. This picture was taken in Cancun: it’s me and my friend Lisa (I wouldn’t have cropped her out, but her boob is kind of showing and she would really kick my ass for that). Lisa is just as Caucasian as me – she’s a blue-eyed brunette - but she’s obviously not nearly as white:
I wish there were some cute little slogan to say about my skin color. Black people can say catchy things like, “The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice.” I could say, “The whiter the skin, the more apt you are to hurt people’s eyes” – but somehow, I doubt it would never catch on.
On some people, pale is pretty:
But as I was looking at my legs out in the bright sunlight the other day, I could no longer delude myself. I’m no Nicole Kidman, y’all. She can make pale look good; I make it look all veiny and cellulite-y and weird.
So I bought myself a tan-in-a-can.
I took great care before using it. Showered, exfoliated, stood on a towel so I wouldn’t get it all over the floor. I sprayed the mist all over myself in what I thought were even strokes. It was a really fine mist so I wasn’t sure exactly where it was landing, but I felt, you know, moist. So I figured it was hitting me somewhere.
And I was right. It was collecting on the tops of my feet and every movable joint, turning them an extra-toasty tan. Now I no longer have to shield my eyes and squint when I look down at the sunlight glaring off my legs, but I also have orange knees and ankles.
Oh well. I guess it’s a trade-off. Now I won’t accidentally blind anyone.
