Here's the update: My nephew's wedding was great. It ended exactly as we expected. They did it!
Now, about what I wore. Nope. Who cares what I wore? I want to talk about my foray into the world of spray tanning.
For years, my hairdresser, Isa, has been working on me. She accepts me — all frizzy and pale — but she tries, nevertheless, to lure me into the world of gel and mousse.
Ours is a dance of love and hope. I love her, and she hopes I'll one day let her put product in my hair.
The recent wedding, however, altered the balance of our relationship forever.
"You have to call my friend Maura," Isa said recently while thinning my hair. "Trust me on this."
"I can't do it," I said as the floor beneath me filled with tufts of hair.
Isa stopped mid-snip. "Promise me, you'll do it."
There are many moments of vulnerability in a woman's life. Lying supine in the gynecologist's office is one. Sitting in the salon chair is another.
"I promise," I said.
"Say it," Isa said, pointing her scissors at me.
I held my hand to my heart. "I promise I'll book a spray tan with Maura before the wedding."
Fearing the wrath of Isa, I did. Two days before the event, I answered my doorbell.
Maura was tiny, perky and surrounded by equipment.
"Don't be afraid," she said, walking into my house. "Where do you want to do it?"
"The basement." I led her to the dungeon.
I'm going to cut to the chase and say this: There were no clothes involved. No strings, no thongs, no nothing. I was directed to look left, look right and hold my breath.
"Now the front, now the back, now lean over” sort of sums up the conversation that took place.
"Is this stuff safe?" I ventured to ask in between not breathing.
I can't remember Maura's exact words, but the gist of her answer was something like, "We use as many natural ingredients as we can." In my head, she also said, "Don't worry. You're going to look great."
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The entire ritual took less than 20 minutes.
As Maura packed up her stuff, she reminded me to rinse off in two hours and to "moisturize, moisturize, moisturize." I waved her goodbye, wearing nothing but the chemicals on my body and a bathrobe.
My sister predicted, with too much enthusiasm, that I'd be orange. But she was wrong.
The next morning, I woke up looking sun-kissed and glorious. My skin looked like I lived in Southern California, instead of the rainy, tornado-prone Midwest.
I looked so good that I refused to go on a walk with my daughter, who was only in town for four days, out of fear that the lightest sweat might ruin my tan.
Soaking in the tub after a weekend of festivities, I laughed at my former fear.
Getting out, however, was tragic. As I dried off, I watched my rosy glow vanish, literally, down the drain.