Losing My Tanning Bed V-Card

What is particularly pleasing about going to a tanning bed? I’ve always pondered this question and have been strongly against ever stufing myself into one of those terribly hot, cramped quarters. So, this made me 22 years old and still a tanning bed virgin.

Why was I so against it? One summer, my mother was going to some tropical island down south and needed a “base tan,” meaning she didn’t want anyone to see how translucent she was. Going to a tanning bed a few times a week for 15-minute intervals, she claimed she then had skin problems. Her legs had seemed to become permanently chapped, and thus she had to use lotion more frequently. To me it sounded like what could develop into something more serious, and I have never wanted to risk getting skin cancer. I’m worse enough when it’s 95 degrees and sunny - I sometimes forget to wear sunscreen. I’m not completely paranoid; I just didn’t understand the point of voluntary skin cancer.

One night last month, my stepsister and I had just returned from gallivanting at the mall. Driving back, she subtly asked, “Want to go to the tanning place? The irst visit is free.” She had already paid for a month’s worth of visits to the “fryer,” and she knew I had been curious about it. The only reason I agreed is because it was free. What could honestly happen to me in one visit?

Walking inside the newly-opened establishment, I peered around and a bronze-faced, blond-haired lady noticed my puzzlement. I was a deer caught in the headlights; I had absolutely no clue what I was doing. My stepsister, having already been acquainted with the procedure, told the woman that I was new. I had to pick up two little eye gadgets so that my retinas wouldn’t be sizzled out of my sockets.

Sitting and waiting for a room to open up, I spaced out and stared down the aisle. The tanning rooms were on both sides, all full of naked bodies in mechanisms that remind me of giant clams. As I waited, the lady gave me suggestions on how long I should go for my irst time.

“Personally, I think it would be good to go for about seven minutes,” she said so matter-of-factly. “You have a very fair skin type.” I agreed, and she said if I wanted to jump out before then, all I had to do was press a button inside the bed that turns it off.

A room opened up, and after the bed had been cleaned and wiped down, I was escorted inside. Never before had I gotten naked in a public place, besides the doctors ofice. Luckily, the rooms were very private and spacious. I got undressed, applied some weird lotion that I had been given for free, implanted the eye goggles and slowly crawled into the blue illuminated machine.

I began to sweat profusely; my back was slippery against the glass bulbs, and beads were dripping down my face. It was deinitely not for the claustrophobic, but I am not; oddly I was rather relaxed. Seven minutes felt like two, and I opened the shell of the bed feeling like nothing was different.

It wasn’t till the next day that I noticed how burned I was. My face was lushed, my upper body was a bit scorched and I was quasi-darker than usual. The real “fun” didn’t occur until about a week later, when I began to peel like a snake sheds its scales.

Weirdly enough, it was a rather calming experience; in the winter especially, relaxing in a heated bed is just as good as it gets. I could never be a slave to the tanning bed; but maybe once in a blue moon I will go for seven minutes in heaven. In reality though, I enjoy the skin I’m in, and I don’t think an overly-bronzed look would suit me.

True Life: I Worked At McDonalds

The unemployment rate is on the rise everyday. As more individuals are laid off, many barely making ends meet as it is, where can they honestly turn these days? People will practically do anything to make life affordable and provide for their families. High school and college students require money for paying rent, car insurance, phone bills and tuition, among other things. Not everyone can land their dream job, especially when they don’t yet carry the credentials nor have the connections to do so. With our current economic situation, you take what you can get and suck it up.

Is it really that painful, working at a fast food restaurant such as McDonald’s? It’s rather simple, and can be a great opportunity for individuals seeking to expand their leadership and business skills. Many who work there long term end up becom- ing managers or can go on to create their personally owned enterprise of McDonald’s establishments. Is there money in that? Of course; most store owners have made decent lives for themselves and are very respected within their communities. With any major company there is always a chance to advance; that is, if you have the commitment and willpower to stay on track.

Sadly, the “stereotypical” McDonald’s worker is seen as lazy, unintelligent and incapable of advanced skills. This couldn’t be more untrue; in fact, these are the people who deal with more hardship and inconsistency in their lives then people who can completely bypass a fast food job in general.

McDonald’s can be demanding in more ways than one. Take socialization for example: since the key objective is “Fast, friendly service with a smile,” the public has a high expectation for their quick, cheap meal. With most on the run, they expect instant gratiication; if this is not met, most grow very impatient and can be rude. Once the employee puts on that uniform, they become a commoner. This doesn’t always give them the respect they deserve as a person. Employees deal with the crabby, insulting people who just don’t understand how much it can suck for them, the workers who have to grin and bare the customers’ needs and remarks. This applies to any customer service job, whether you’re a waiter, a supermarket cashier, and even a hairdresser! If someone is dissatisied, employees have to give them what they want. The customer is always right, correct?

During my short few-week stint at McDonald’s over winter break, I was subjected to the annual SOR, which is when a McDonald’s representative comes in to do an inspec- tion. Everything must be perfect because the store is graded on cleanliness, quality and performance. Prior to the visit, each of us individually had extra cleaning jobs and duties to be prepared for the visit; I even had to be ready for answers to questions such as, “What was the target rate of customers during lunch hour?” Seems ridiculous to most, but it is very important and crucial to the business. It was taken very seriously by most, as even the store owner was present, and our general manager was obviously nervous and eager to please. Hard work paid off in the end, as all of our scores were in the mid 90s. My co-workers and I were showered with praise, and then work continued in the same format it had always been in.

In retrospect, I have saved up a decent amount of cash for my next semester at college. If it will help me financially, why should I be embarrassed about having worked there? We’ve all had jobs that we’ve been embarrassed to tell our friends about, but why should we care what they think? And more importantly, if they would make fun of you, are they really worth keeping around? Even if you’re working a job that you know isn’t the greatest, it will shape you into a stronger individual that is more akin to understanding the ups and downs in life. For those who don’t experience it, well, they’ll just continue to be ignorant; but let’s be hopeful that won’t become a true statement. As the father in Calvin and Hobbes always tells young Calvin after doing jobs he despises, they just simply “build character.”

My Day As a Parrothead

As steel drums fill the charter bus headed to Gillette Stadium, a woman in her mid-forties with flowered leis and parrot earrings offer me a vivid array of jell-o shots. I grab one, pop it in my mouth and stop to think, what have I gotten myself into?

What I was embarking on was the typical schedule for a Jimmy Buffett concert. Jimmy Buffett fanatics are called 'Parrotheads.' The term Parrothead relates to Jimmy Buffett as Deadhead does to The Grateful Dead. For Parrotheads, Buffett's music and a "laid back" attitude is a lifestyle. His "no shirt, no shoes, no problem" manta is displayed in his songs about boats, beaches and bar drinks. Buffett has made his mark so prominent within the past few decades that when you think of Key West or a margarita, you automatically associate it with good ol' Jimmy and the Coral Reefer Band.

Buffett has created his own genre, combining country, folk and pop music with coastal and tropical lyrical themes, creating a sound some call "gulf and western." Among singing and songwriting, he has written three number one best-selling books, opened his own chain of restaurants aptly named Margaritaville, is involved in charity efforts (most notably for creating the Save The Manatee foundation) and is branching out into film production.

Younger generations, however, do not understand the legacy of James William Buffett. Most mock and criticize him, and the majority know the song "Cheeseburger in Paradise" and nothing more. I, on the other hand, have grown up knowing this man my entire life.

Back when I was just a little girl in Ohio, my family would go on camping trips whenever there was free time. Lake Superior, Lake Erie - you name a Great Lake; we'd been there. My dad would always bring his boom box lakeside while my brother and I played in the water, and I vividly remember my dad playing the album, Off to See the Lizard. In fact, what am I saying? I've heard every single album and know every song there is to know by Buffett. Perhaps I am a Parrothead by default, but I don't know of a bigger fanatic than my mother.

My mother is a member of the Connecticut chapter of the Parrothead Club. There are chapters in cities spanning all over the country. Abiding by their motto, "Party with a Purpose," they hold fundraiser events for different causes. The most popular event held is the Meeting of The Minds in Key West, Florida, which attracts 3,500 Parrotheads annually and includes live music, a "Toys for Tots" drive, blood drives, raffles and other events raising money for charities.

The chapters also organize group trips to - you guessed it - Jimmy's concerts. In the past three decades, Buffett has made more money from his tours rather than his albums. A typical Jimmy Buffett concert will sell out in minutes, and this is all thanks to these devoted fans.

My bus trip was stuck in traffic as the Gillette Stadium came in sight. The bus turned right into a used car dealership, where Parrotheads from all over New England had been allowed to divide and conquer. My mother's friends in the Connecticut chapter started to set up tents, and eventually busted out the food and drinks and started gulping them down like camels in the heat.

My mother and I walked around to other chapters, where there were colorful blow up toys, men and women adorning coconut bras and grass skirts, trivia and drinking contests, an ice luge and much, much more. I ate a cherry that had been soaking in grain alcohol for quite some time and winced. I participated in a sort of Wheel of Fortune, except I got "Take a Jell-O Shot from Someone's Boobs." Luckily they let me just take the jell-o shot.

After five or six hours of tailgating, it was time for the "Bama Breeze '07" tour to commence. We walked across the street to the stadium; slowly shuffled our way in; and spent $7.50 on a Coors Light. Never before this year had Buffett played in the home of the Patriots, and he had no problem filling a football stadium. There was one opening act, but for most fans that just meant bathroom breaks and more pre-gaming. Luckily, our seats were not in the nosebleed section, but we were unfortunately settled in between some heavy marijuana smokers who were probably around the same age as my brother and I. I sipped on the lukewarm Coors Light I had been nursing for over an hour, and finally, for the first time in my life, I watched Jimmy Buffett take the stage.

From our section, Buffett was comparable to an ant, but luckily to each side of the stage there were two giant screens. My mother explained to me that nowadays, Buffett's set list is quite predictable. Upon further research, I've discovered the "The Big 8." The Big 8 are the eight songs that Buffett plays at every show. After their success, "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere" and "Why Don't We Get Drunk (And Screw)" were added on, changing it to "The Big 10."

I participated in most of the "Big 10" songs, whether it was screaming "salt!" during "Margaritaville," singing "You better lava me now or lava me not" in "Volcano," yelling the ingredients to a perfect lunch in "Cheeseburger in Paradise," or just feeling generally happy during "Changes In Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes," when Buffett played videos on the giant screens of local Parrotheads tailgating. The best song, however, was "Fins." Preluded by the Jaws theme song to tease and get the crowd pumped up, fans raised their hands in the air in the manner of a dorsal fin, waving them left to right during the lyrics "Fins to the left, Fins to the right, and you're the only bait in town."

Almost 20 songs and two encores later, it was time to shuffle out of the arena. By shuffle, I mean inch our way out; we were like salmon swimming upstream. (Word of advice to smokers: Do not smoke when you're packed together like sardines - I almost got a cigarette in my eye.) When we finally made it back to the bus, we had a few more beers; sleepily boarded the bus; I chugged some Coconut Rum; and everyone went to sleep. (Sidenote: My crowned achievement was that I had started drinking at 9 a.m. and finished with that rum at midnight.) After finally arriving home at 4:30 a.m., I realized that no matter how much I cherished his music growing up, I am simply not cut out to be a true Parrothead.