I don’t know how it’s possible, but I managed to mess up the application of Johnson & Johnson Holiday Skin a couple of months back. I ended up with streaks on my legs and arms, and a blotchy set of toes (perhaps trying to make my feet match my legs was a bad idea). I hear the Jergens equivalent is beautiful awesome - my friend Mary uses it, which I was shocked to learn when I complimented her on her glowing skin - but at this point, I’m very gunshy about the entire self-tanning thing.

So I’ve decided that being white is all right. Except that it does show every bruise and scratch. The end result being that I am, against all good sense, pondering a trip to the tanning bed after several years away from the things. I can’t even pretend that I’d go for "just a few" sessions, since my legs

take months to get properly brown. No, this would be a genuine commitment and investment, and might lead to an early death.

But then as I put precious minutes and energy into this dilemma, I recollect something I read recently from Anne Lamott, a writer whose work really speaks to me, even though I disagree with a good half of what she has to say.

I got obsessed with something my best friend had said right before she died, when she was in a wheelchair, wearing a wig to cover her baldness, weighing almost no pounds, but very serene, very alive. We were at Macy’s. I was modeling a brief dress for her that I thought my boyfriend would like. But then I asked whether it made me look big in the hips, and Pammy said, as clear and kind as a woman can be, "Annie? You really don’t have that kind of time."

I turn 30 in nine days. Do I have that kind of time? Did I ever? Do you?

Original post by Jackie Danicki