After three years of paying a fairly hefty monthly fee to a local gym ( and only using it — at most –a dozen times) I decided to do what any rational, frugal person would do: quit the gym and join a cheaper one so that the cost of not working out wouldn’t be so expensive.  What lured me to this particular gym was not the equipment, the staff or the potential to get fit: I had all that at the other gym I never used. No, what drew me in to this particular gym was the one amenity I knew would change my life: unlimited use of the deluxe shiatsu massage chair. My theory was that if the promise of a free five-minute trip to paradise was a strong enough incentive, I just might actually work out while i was there. And it has worked, for the most part, although (lack of) time and a heavier than normal work schedule have gotten in the way the past couple of weeks. But I digress…

Anyway, one of the other perks of this gym was unlimited use of the tanning booths, something I never had any intention of using, until the first warm day of spring arrived and I looked down at my ghastly white, cellulite-occupied legs. Having always believed that anything dark is thinning, I decided to give the tanning booth a whirl.  Never having tanned in a booth that doesn’t close around you like a coffin, I asked the girl at the desk what I needed to know before going into the booth. “You will need to use goggles. If you don’t have any, we sell them here for three dollars,” she said. “And how do I use this thing?” I asked. “Is there a timer, or a button I have to push to start it? Will it go off automatically?” “It’s easy,” she assured me. ” You just go into the booth, change into whatever you’re wearing to tan, and push the start button. It’s on a timer, so it will go off in 12 minutes.”

Easy enough. When my turn came, I went into the booth, changed into shorts and a tank, put my goggles on and pushed the button. As I said, I have never been in a stand-up tanning booth, so I  didn’t know what to expect. As the room began to heat up, I was puzzled by the lack of direct light. Not sure how the tanning rays were reaching my body, I decided my best course of action was to expose as much skin as possible by assuming a straddle position with my hands on my hips in a sort of super-hero pose. At this point, I was beginning to think mayber the tanner was broken, but I assumed maybe it was new technology that used some sort of indirect rays. For 12 minutes, I stood facing the mirror — fists on hips, goggles in place — and sang all the words I could remember to the “Mighty Mouse” theme song: “Here I come to save the day! That means that Mighty Mouse is on his way!” I felt ridiculous, but was rewarded by Paige telling me when I came out that she thought I looked like I gotten some color, or at least that my face was really red. Fast forward to a week later.

I was driving Paige somewhere with one of her countless friends in the car, when I mentioned that I probably wouldn’t tan again since I didn’t see the slightest evidence of anything close to a tan.  “I really think the thing was broken,” I said to Paige. “There was no light in the room, except what was coming through the little slats on the back wall of the booth.” Paige paused before asking me this question: “Mom, was there a door in the tanning booth?” “There was a bench, and a mirror,” I said, “and I think maybe a door leading to a closet or something.” At this point, Paige and her friend began laughing so hard, it took several minutes for her spit out the following words.

“Mom, you were in the changing stall. You have to go through the door to get into the tanning booth.” My legs are still pale, and I’ve thought about using one of the new self-tanners, but then I remembered a time — several years ago — when I tried on the fool-proof versions of the tanning cream. Let’s just call that adventure “The Tale of the Rusty Legs.”