Pale as Porcelain & Pleasantly Plump

"Fat looks good tan." That's what I used to say. And believe me, the proof is in my pudding like legs.
A few years ago, I got over the fear of tanning beds collapsing under my weight, thus trapping me inside a glass coffin of UV rays and death. I would put my ear buds in, listen to something nice, and zone out for up to 15 minutes. Within a week or two, an amazing optical allusion had accrued. My chunky monkey legs seemed to thin out, and my cellulite was not nearly as visible. I admired my strong, thick thighs, although they were by no means smaller. I liked the way I looked, but the facts of melanoma are strong deterrents. I don't tan anymore for many reasons. Partly because of the financial burden, partly because oompa loompa orange is not my color. Mostly, because tan doesn't equal beautiful.
I am a very pale girl, almost translucent, with all my veins in my arms and hands blue and quite visible. I like to joke that I glow in the dark, especially naked. I don't have any deep seeded issues with this, thanks in part to my wonderful man friend who likes how milky white my complexion is. I like it too, especially next to his light brown skin.
Despite his support, for some reason, I feel more confident with a tan. My family tree is chronically caucasian, except for a smidgen of American Indian on my mothers side. I'm not very athletic or outdoorsy, so there's no reason I would be tanned "naturally." There's no way in hell I'd be caught on the beach in a bikini without some color on my skin, and the most I get makes my tiny white stretchmarks pink. But that little kiss of UV rays makes me feel better. It makes me want to work out more, to wear sleeveless shirts and shorts. My mother would gladly pay for a membership to a tanning salon, but that's not what I want. I don't want to have to rely on a fake bake tan to feel better about myself.