This One Biscuit Moment Is Brought to You By Solarcaine

Prepare to point and laugh. I'm fixin' to out myself on several levels.

For the last week, I've been going to the tanning bed. For two reasons. And yes I know they are just as dangerous as the sun...SHADDAP I don't want to hear it.

The first reason is that I thought the light might help me to avoid the black hole that has been sucking at me this past week. Yes, I know it's not the same light as those SAD lamps that they sell, but every little bit helps, right? The second reason is that I'm tired of being the "whitest white girl" everyone knows. The one who reflects the sun. The one who's skin is virtually transparent and is therefore a road map of veins and arteries.

So, this morning I went out to run some errands - drop off a prescription, put gas in the car, hit Starbucks - and I decided it would be good time to get a little iPod/light time. The bed I usually use, the one where you can't burn, was occupied, so I got the one where you can burn. But, hey, I'd been three whole times already so I was good, right?

I realized as I got undressed that I was going commando under my yoga pants, but I've done the nakey tanning bed thing before when I was getting ready for our Naked Jamaican Honeymoon. No biggie.

I'm in the bed, groovin' with the iPod, when it occurs to me that that area hadn't seen the sun in over 9 years, and I started to worry a little bit. No problem, I'll just alternate covering it with my hands. Brilliant!

Timer dings, bed goes dark and cold, I hop out. The inspection in the mirror revealed nothing but a few million additional freckles, so I congratulated myself for my splendidly improvised solution.

I'm happy. I'm feeling good. I take a nap. I wake up, and SWEET CINNAMON JESUS! Who painted me with napalm while I was sleeping? As discretely as possible, so as not to alert the husband, I moseyed over to the mirror, lifted up my Everybody Loves a Brown Eyed Girl t-shirt and a bright red belly was staring back at me. Oh man oh man oh man...breathe...gather courage...how bad can it be?...I improvised!

Apparently not soon enough.

So now I have an ice pack covering the area that evidently really did have a reason to be covered with hair. And it's strangely reminiscent of spending time with those ice pack thingies that they give you after giving birth. You know, the ones where you squeeze them and crunch them around and they get cold all of a sudden? Except it's not a nostalgic kind of reminiscing. It's more of a post-tramatic stress kind of reminiscing.

And my dear husband went out and bought me Solarcaine. For my crotch.