Look Ma! No Tan Lines!

Good news! I’m going to have an over all body tan this summer! My insurance company, the one I work for, is sort of paying for it. I do cough up the co pay for the NBUV tanning booth at the dermatologist office, but they pick up the bulk of the money. I guess I’m getting ahead of myself here, but you know how I love starting in the middle of the story. Okay, let’s get into the way back machine and scoot on over to January. You may recall I blamed my rash on hedgehogs after online research.  It seemed so obvious but well, I was wrong. The skin eruption so confounded my family doctor that he treated me for three different things, none of which I actually had. Finally, after I insisted, he conceded that I might need to see a specialist.

Chapter two in my saga began when I met my holistic dermatologist early in May. He was very excited that he knew almost immediately what was causing my relatively rare skin disease. Almost too excited actually, almost gleeful. It’s not that I mind when a very attractive young man finds me interesting, but damn, not because of my itchy red blotches. He numbed my wrist and cut a small shallow hole of skin from my arm. Two weeks later one of his minions, an English challenged lady, called me to tell me cheerfully that the doctor was right. I have an auto immune disease most assuredly related to stress. Well now, that’s going to be easy to fix, right?

I told my daughter about the treatment plan, cortisone cream and the ultra violet light treatment. She asked immediately, “Will you get a tan?” I ponder over this and savor the irony of going to my dermatologist to soak up the exact type of rays I have been avoiding for years because of the danger of skin cancer and premature aging. “Yes,” I reply, “I think so.”

After waiting for 45 minutes in the office for my first session a short attractive dark haired woman came into the waiting room asking for “Mrs. Holy”. I’m feeling a bit self-righteous these days so I raised my hand, picked up my bag and followed the minion into a treatment room. She gave me 3 minutes of instruction and a pair of yellow goggles while I peeled off my clothes. After all this big whoop about the miracle of the lights I am dumbfounded to find I only get 33 seconds per side on my first visit.  “Ya vil git extra 5 seconds every time,” she tells me by way of explanation. Hum, this tan may take a while. Back in my clothes I hunt down the minion whose name I still don’t know.

“How long is this going to take,” I ask?

“You ready to go,” she says. It is a statement not a question.

“No,” I mean how many times do I have to do this?

“Oh, two or three month, depends.”

This is not the answer I need to hear. I want a pill for this, a miracle drug. Unfortunately there is very little research being done on annoying skin rashes in middle aged women. I know I should be grateful because I am truly blessed with good health. This is neither life threatening or debilitating. Business goes on as usual. There is no support group to join or special diet to follow.  There is nothing I can do to affect the outcome except learn to relax and accept the things I cannot change. Damn, it’s going to be a long itchy summer but at least I will have my first tan in thirty years.