"There's Namowal's Ghost!" a catty gal in my college dorm would say. "She looks awful! If only she'd get some color! " Catty Gal went to the tanning salon regularly. So did friends. The only person who didn't say I was too white was my dermatologist. My light freckling meant I was getting too much sun. He insisted use sunblock daily.
In the late 1980s, a marshmallow complexion was uncool. Self tanners looked orange and streaky on me, so I was stuck with the vanilla soft serve look. Friends goofed on me, and even strangers sometimes called me "Snow White" or "Casper."
Flash forward twenty years later. The pasty look doesn't stand out the way it did in the eighties. I know sun worshipers in their twenties with more wrinkles than me. I guess the dermatologist was right.
I'll end this post with an open letter.
|Dear People Who Made Fun of Me for Not Getting a Tan in the 1980s,|
We're almost forty. I still get carded. How about you?