Good Times, They Roll

Normally I try and cram as much as possible into my lunch hour. Grocery shopping, bank deposit, post office- check, check and check. Such was this afternoon’s laundry list of duties when I stepped into my notso shiny black car and sped out of the parking lot, barely missing the bitch in the silver Camry who was dead-set against waiting her turn for parking-lot leaving rights.
I was in a hurry because today’s lunch was already a guaranteed tight one, seeing as how I’d added in a stop at the tanning salon in addition to my bank and grocery stops. You can laugh all you want about the tanning bit. I tan on average of six times a year which, by my calculations, gives my skin cells ample time to replenish themselves. That or I’m just speeding up the already genetic inevitability of cancerous pustules on my dermis, and who doesn’t need a little cancerous pustule? Exactly.
But the tanning was a distinct necessity as I’m celebrating the birthday of a friend of mine this weekend and the birthday celebrations involve an all-day trip to a waterpark. I feel confident in saying that should the public have to look at your un-toned ass, you should at least give them the courtesy of not displaying an un-toned pasty ass. This same level of courtesy should be extended to people in the next stall over by not talking on your cell phone while you drop last night’s Mexican food into the porcelain bowl. But The Public At Large seems to disregard these common courtesies and while I could be a vindictive slut against The Public by smathering my pasty self with blue body glitter or by making grotesque noises so the person in the stall next to me feels compelled to shut off their phone and hence, their mouth, I will not stoop to such levels. I have standards. And what if they thought my make-believe noises were real?
So after I sped through the bank line and stopped into Kroger for some insta-oatmeal and granola bars I drove across the street to the tanning salon. My first visit there I am usually nervous and intimidated by all of the petite and skinny and well, quite obviously, tan young girls who barely have the energy to raise their heavy eyelids from their Cosmo GIRL! and check me into a room. But by the second visit I normally realize that while these girls are the epitome of what I am theoretically supposed to look like, let’s face it, most of them are between the ages 17 and 25 with little to no job prospects, unless someone out there knows of a place that’s looking for Bored and Ambivalent girls who definitely can’t spell Ambivalent but who look great in a bikini. Also, my daddy didn’t buy my Lexus sitting out front and my tits, they’re real.
So I checked into room 4, a room I’ve strangely never been in but as all the rooms look exactly the same it didn’t register much in the ol’ noggin. So I took off my clothes, poured on the tanning lotion that purports to be a Supreme Tanning Booster and Instant Brozeifier and laid down on the cold plastic surface, placing the wee goggles over my eyelids.
Six minutes later my time is up and I quickly lift up the coffin-like lid only to be greeted by a very bright and very large rush of sunlight. I actually paused for about two seconds, just enough time for me to stand completely stupefied and mutter the phrase “holy fucking shit on a stick.” I then lunged for the wide open door and slammed it shut.
It was in that moment that I realized I had definitely forgotten to lock the door.
And that I’d just treated a gaggle of giggling girls to a full frontal shot.
And that I’m definitely never going back there again.
Shit.