Color me orange

Technically, I should have written this edition’s Happy Trails last edition, as that was our active edition over Valentine’s Day, which, by its very nature, topics of relationships are suited to. But remember, I was confused last edition, and Valentine’s was the farthest thing from my mind (yes, ladies, shame on me, I know). However, it’s never too late for matters of the heart.

Since my wife and I were teens when we met, people commonly think we were high school sweethearts. But they’re wrong on two counts. Yes, we went to the same high school, but we didn’t know each other in high school (not even vaguely). Also, I’m not sure “sweethearts” is the proper term of endearment to describe our relationship. Most days we use plenty of other words with each other, and “sweetheart” is not among them. But such is marriage.

I did, however, take notice of my wife one year before we actually met. A girl friend (meaning a friend who was a girl, hence the space between “girl” and “friend”) and I were at a local hangout, having coffee, when my wife (then a nameless person to me) walked past our booth with her boyfriend. The first thing I noticed about this “girl” was her hair. It was so long and so straight, down past the small of her back.

The girl I was sitting with also had very long hair and took pride in that, so I said to her, “I think that girl has you beat in the long hair department.”

My friend quickly turned around (That can’t be!) and said, “Oh, that’s Erika.” So my friend apparently knew who Erika was. And that was the end of it. I don’t think Erika even noticed me, and it’s the strangest feeling when I think about that day in hindsight, now knowing the girl with the long hair I saw would one day be my wife.

A year later, a common friend introduced Erika and I, and 14 years later (and about 8 inches of hair length shorter), here we are. Married.

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If there’s one truth in life, it’s that it’s hard to catch a tan in winter. Unless, gentlemen, you’re married. I’m speaking to the guys here for a minute. I don’t know about you, but my wife’s side of the bathroom is a skyline of lotions, creams, ointments, cleansers, washes, and makeup, makeup, makeup. On my side, there’s a bar of soap and a toothbrush—Indian territory outside the metropolis. One day several years ago, I let my fingers walk through streets of bath products and discovered something called self-tanner. I admit, I thought I’d struck gold. The sun is terrible for your skin, but come on, who doesn’t like a tan?

I asked my wife if I could try it, and she said, “Don’t overdo it.”

Me?

Overdo it?

Never.

I took the bronze plastic bottle and ran.

A day later I was Target, the self-tanner the last thing on my mind, when a strange thing started to happen. People were “looking” at me. First, it was an attractive woman about my age (I’m not a ladies’ man, so my first thought when an attractive woman looks at me is, “What’s wrong with me?”). I let that go, though, and kept on to the snack aisle. Then other people started looking at me. Finally, when an older gentlemen downright gave me a head-turning stare as he walked by, I decided enough was a enough and found a mirror.

Upon first glance, everything looked in check: jeans clean, T-shirt old and not so clean but it was a Saturday. Then I saw my face.

(I need to interrupt. For you Oscar fans out there, you may remember about 7 years ago it was vogue to show up on the red carpet with orange skin.)

Like my celebrity counterparts, I had arrived under the fluorescent lights as orange as a carrot.

But the bottle said, “They’ll think you’re glowing.”

Yeah, with radioactivity!

When I got home, my wife gave me scrub for my face (and arms and legs—yes, I put the stuff everywhere), and I headed into the shower. Handing the tub of apple-smelling body wash with “deep cleansing exfoliates” (looked like sand) to me, she said, “Don’t overdo it.”

Sure thing.

And the next day I was no longer orange. I was now red, as in raw.

Chris La Pelusa
Managing Editor

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