My poor, dear bosoms are on fire.
This is the second time this week that I've done this.
The boyfriend and I are on a quest of sorts to make over ourselves before our big move to Miami. We're working out (if you can call it that), eating healthy (restricting), and tanning (becoming lobsters). We shall become beautiful people by the time we move - or hideous, deformed versions of our past selves. Whichever.
On Monday, we were at the tanning salon and it was an unusually crowded day - hello, busy season. We were both put in beds that had literally just been vacated long enough to clean. Room still feverishly hot, scent of burnt flesh wafting in the air.
Mmm, sharing is caring.
We both left the salon feeling our usual synthetic sunshine euphoric high. We both went to bed burnt, whimpering, complaining children.
|*actual photographic evidence of the horror existing on our chests.|
So there we were, laying in bed, both of us tingling and itching, both of us barely able to sleep. I got up more times throughout the night to reapply Calamine lotion to my ladies than most people with weak bladders get up to use the restroom.
It provided temporary relief, and then the itching would start again.
When we finally arose - not actually falling asleep until 2 am even though we went to bed at 10 pm - the bathroom looked like something out of a horror movie. Instead of blood splattered across every surface, there were chalky pink sprays of Calamine everywhere. It looked like someone went on a unicorn killing spree throughout the night - but who knows, I've been known to do stranger things in my sleep.
We ignored the slaughterhouse so urgently calling out in front of us and went about our morning routines. The boyfriend turned to kiss me. Caressed my cheek. Removed my blouse. Unveiled the most terrifying sight of all.
|It was kinda like that. Only far less attractive.|
The crusted over, pale pink, wrinkly looking boobs kind of remembering.
Yes, the only way a sunburn on your tits could get worse.
|Obviously, the devil in disguise.|
After going on a one day hiatus from tanning (I'm obviously some sort of a sadist), I returned. Convinced that my dear bosoms could take one for the team, because goddamnit if I am not thrifty! I will get the most for my money when I buy an unlimited tanning package. By golly!
Barely four minutes in and the tingling returned. I got out of the bed, slathered on more tanning lotion, and returned. Those next six minutes were almost unbearable - I ended up getting out two minutes early, feeling like a total puss.
Don't even bother putting my bra on. Don't even care if my boobs look weird in my shirt or my tits get hard from some phantom breeze on the way out of the salon.
Me? Not caring about what other people think? Yes, it was that serious.
Deciding that the zombie-fying Calamine lotion look was probably not the best choice this time around, we ventured out to my gramma's house where I knew I had stashed a bottle of aloe sun repair lotion.
Of course, I forget to bring the lotion with me when I go to work. End up sneaking off rather regularly to go grope myself in the bathroom in order to gain some semblance of relief. Eventually break down, admit defeat, and have the boyfriend drive out my lotion.
Smelling of coconuts and skin cancer, I am still alive. Oh, but just barely.