From Blonde and Bronzed to Pale and Proud
There’s a common misconception that as human beings we are invincible. We see bugs splattered on the front windshield of our cars and occasionally someone’s defenseless pet displayed as road kill along the highway, neither of which would ever happen to a human. If only these poor creatures had been warned, their fate may have been different. The warning labels for humans to observe are regularly ignored. During the 1980’s, cigarettes were smoked frequently in movies and TV shows in a smooth fashion that gave the viewer the impression that cigarettes are sexy. Although the rates of lung cancer and other respiratory diseases have increased, smokers still continue to ignore the warning from the surgeon general regarding their health. Likewise, tanning beds have also been declared a cancer-causing device. Because the stars can smoke cigarettes and sport a tan to increase their attractiveness without photo aging or wrinkles, so should we. No one ever anticipates tragedy, but collectively as a generation we are actively engaging in destructive behavior because we assume we are invincible. Whatever the warning label states, we think that will never happen to me.
Reality television targets a standing nothing short of perfection for the self-image of a woman. This idea of perfection was drilled into the reflection of young women from the very beginning when Barbies and Disney Princesses were shoved into the toy chest. As we get older this idea becomes even more personal, with the constant influence of celebrities, weight loss, and the flawless genetics of our peers. In Jean M. Twenge’s book titled Generation Me, self-esteem is highlighted as a common attribute of the millenials. “Do whatever it takes to feel better about yourself, because that’s the most important thing in the world,” is the attitude shared by most members of this generation (96). But how far is too far? Tools to attain perfection, such as diet pills, teeth whiteners, and tanning salons are blanketed across commercials that are already sandwiched between our 2 favorite reality shows targeted towards altering our image; opening up possibilities to modify our appearance so we have the resources to become the Barbies we once played with as a child. Like the celebrities, we want to be beautiful and are disillusioned that we are invincible.
As I grew into a blossoming pre-teen, the pursuit of perfection was just a natural step toward maturation. I was twelve years old and a sub-par member of an All-Star cheerleading squad that was one step away from winning a national championship. The older team members were much more athletic than I was, therefore they were much better gymnasts. Not only were they more athletic, but according to the magazines and movies, they were also more beautiful. They had petite figures, with skinny bronzed legs, bleached teeth, and glowing blonde hair that flowed to the middle of their backs. I was the girl who had just been fitted for the cosmetic travesty of braces and was awkwardly tall and pale. I wasn’t nearly as athletic as the other girls, and because of my appearance I felt like I stood out, and not in a good way. In my mind, these perfect plastics had it all together. On the outside, because they could compare to the girls in magazines, they must be perfect on the inside also. These girls had fallen for the tricks of the celebrities and they looked good. Soon I would talk my mom into letting me fall for it also.
Shortly before Nationals in 2003, I started tanning in my best friend’s mom’s tanning bed. I went to her house everyday after school before the grueling practices. She assured me that since I wouldn’t stay in the entire time and it wasn’t a very powerful bed, my mom wouldn’t even notice the difference. My friend was right but only for a couple of days. Then before my mom noticed, I begged her into getting my hair highlighted. As my appearance slowly changed, I started to become addicted to being someone I wasn’t. I also became more confident in the tanning bed and decided that it was time to lay in it for the full twenty minutes. I wish I knew then what I know now because my body isn’t made to be tan as my natural skin tone is only a shade or two darker than the color of this paper. When the timer went off, I opened the bed and my body was the color of our red pom-pom’s. I had been sun burnt plenty of times before but this is the first time it had happened in January and there’s no way I could hide this from my mom. After a very painful practice, my mom picked me up and right away noticed the permanent rouge of my skin. Surprisingly, she wasn’t even mad. Her only response was, “Well if I knew ya wanted to tan ya coulda just asked me!” Apparently, tanning packages at salons are cheaper as a family. She had spent so much time with the other moms that allowed their daughters to tan daily that she suggested that I start going to a salon.
As expected, we won Nationals but I got tired of tanning. So I didn’t bronze again until high school when I noticed that I really missed looking like the other girls and was reminded that pale isn’t perfect. Once again, by comparing myself to my teammates on the cheer team, I realized I wasn’t happy with my appearance. The nearest tanning salon at the time was twenty minutes and one town away so every evening, my mom would come home from work and then drive me back to town so I could achieve the ideal look I was going for. Somehow, whatever I was doing to my body wasn’t good enough though.
Although I was only 16 years old and had the bleach blonde hair and bronzed body of a junior playmate, I still couldn’t meet satisfaction with my image. At this time, I was permanently tan, but not too tan because, well, I’m still pale on the inside and UV lights could only do so much. Nonetheless, being tan had become part of my identity. I no longer looked up to the older girls on the cheer team because I had moved on to bigger role models. I finally had my driver’s license and I was going somewhere, to the tanning salon to be exact. All of my friends were tan and my mom had started tanning again as well so we eventually decided to buy a tanning bed for our home. Our plan was simple, the monthly payments for the bed would be cheaper than buying a tanning package at the salon. My friends would be allowed to come over and use it and they could donate to the tanning fund if they wanted to.
I’ll never forget the day it arrived on the UPS truck. As the driver pulled up the back door, I saw a box laying in the back of the carrier the size of a casket. It was in probably ten pieces and took six people to carry up to the third-floor of our tri-level home. I spent the entire afternoon assembling it because this was almost as good as Christmas and I wanted to play with my new toy as soon as possible. When it was finally finished in all of its glory, it was dynamic, so shiny and black. I dusted the outer shell and was so impressed with this new gadget that now rested in our spared bedroom! So I closed the lid and stood back to marvel at this new machine. I stared at if for several minutes then with much disappointment, as the black lid closed, the shiny shell made it resemble a casket from the future.
In the coming months, I continued to tan but lost focus on achieving perfection when I finally achieved desire. For the first time ever, I had a boyfriend. While that lasted, I was satisfied. Irony triumphed a year and a half later when we broke up and I was diagnosed with Malignant Melanoma, the deadliest form of skin cancer. All of the years of tanning to achieve perfection and desire slapped me in the face within the span of a month. Playing god with my body finally got old and the Real God finally intervened. Being unsatisfied with my body was a hypothetical slap in the face for the Creator of the Universe. It was like I had been saying that all of the hard work he put into making me unique wasn’t good enough.
I’ll never forget the day I received the news of the dreaded c-word. Just 2 weeks earlier I had been referred to my dermatologist “just to be on the safe side.” As a seventeen year old, I wasn’t concerned. The doctor removed one inch of flesh and told me it was routine for the sample to be tested so “no need to worry.” After he reaffirmed my lack of concern, I ignored any possibility of a bad outcome. Then on the first Saturday of my senior year spring break, I walked through the door of my home to be confronted by a somber look on my dad’s face. He told me we needed to talk so I should sit down. Immediately I panicked, “Is grandma sick? Are mom and dad getting a divorce? Did someone die?” were my only thoughts. When I sat down, my parents composed themselves, then my dad finally ruptured, “Katie, You have Malignant Melanoma. You have Skin Cancer.” I sat in an emotional silence for what could’ve been hours but was merely a few minutes. Then with a melancholy reaction, I finally whispered, “Am I going to die?” I’m certain my dad wasn’t prepared for that question but he replied with hope including how blessed I was that it had been detected early. I’m blessed that it was detected at all. It wasn’t my choice to get the lesion examined. So the next step included one surgery by a specialist to determine what stage the cancer had progressed to. As my dad had told me out of a blind-sided response, we were very fortunate with a diagnosis of stage-1. My parents were embarrassed and remorseful for allowing me to do that to my body for so many years but I never placed the blame on them. This is my body and it was damaged by me, not my parents.
Like many others my age, I thought I was invincible. I played with fire and was burnt, literally. I stopped using tanning beds immediately after my body told me to quit. Each check-up at both doctors is a constant reminder of who I was and who I’ve become after a shocking cancer scare. I risked my life to achieve a “healthy” glow that wasn’t really healthy at all. I would never say that the years I sun-bathed were worth the terrifying news of cancer but I know I wouldn’t be confident in my natural skin without that experience. I would still be a sun-worshipper that ignored the warning label because that could never happen to me. Striving for perfection would still seem like a realistic goal but in all reality, no one is perfect.
Media has encouraged women to fit the description of supermodel for generations but until my generation others didn’t take this example quite so painstakingly serious. Individuals my age are willing to risk their lives to improve their image. Magazines, posters, and reality TV display false images of what it takes to achieve power. All display failure as a minor blemish on one’s skin or a couple of added inches to a waistline, never emphasizing self-satisfaction. This false advertisement eludes that success is found in perfection. These images were implanted into my selfish, invincible teenage heart and pushed me to nearly wreck my life. I was driven to my limit to achieve the self-esteem my peers hope to accomplish. Instead, my body responded and helped me realize that perfection is unrealistic and isn’t worth trading my life.
Twenge, Jean M. Generation Me. New York: Free Press, 2006. Print.