DISCLAIMER: This isn't a 10 paragraph-long fish for a compliment. I don't need anyone to tell me that my coloring "fits me," "looks good with my hair" or whatever else salespeople and my mother say to boost my confidence. This is a real life pale girl sharing her story of survival — and letting other pale girls out there know they're not alone.
One of the most common phrases you hear during your time as a teenage girl is, "Let's go tan." Soon after other girls squeal in unison to signal their excitement and agreement, a tornado of tanning oil, bikinis, and towels has taken over whatever room you're in. Unless you're me, then what follows the idea of tanning isn't an offer to use some of their tanning oil or borrow their swimsuits. But, an "Addison can you drop us off at the pool since there's no parking?" Or "See ya later Addison!" I know what you're thinking. Poor girl doesn't have any friends, that's why no one invites her tanning. Although that is debatable, that's not the issue here. I'm not cordially invited to poison my skin with UV rays because ... I'm pale.
To fully grasp my degree of paleness you must first understand that the translucency of my skin is not that of a sorority girl saying, "Ugh, I'm so pale!" just because she's been on a Christmas ski trip. It's not even close to the skin of a high schooler claiming,"I look so washed out in my prom pics!" This paleness is real. So real, that after said girls utter something along those lines they follow it with, "But pale looks good on you, Addison!" because they know that they have just dug themselves into a hole. No, my paleness is redefining the term "pale." It reaches new degrees of burns and higher levels of SPF every day.
Some people like to enjoy the weather along with their meal by sitting outside at restaurants. What a simple, pleasant way to live. Too bad I contract a sunburn 20 minutes into outdoor dining.
It seems as if everyone on planet earth relishes in any moment they get to spend on the beach. The sun, the ocean, the sand, all seem to whisper "relaxation" to the average person. For me, they scream "burning flesh."
Going to any sporting event held outside is like crawling into an oven wearing tin foil as a dress. It creates in me a lack of interest in sports. Okay, I hated them before, but this doesn't help.
Sunscreen is my best friend. I prefer 100 SPF, but sometimes settle for 75 when I throw caution to the wind. I wear it so often that the thick, white film coating my body feels like a hug from a familiar friend. Sure, it causes me to always have that "beachy" smell, (and not the good kind) but at least I have a signature scent like all girls want; kind of like Subway's.
Trying to find makeup that matches my skin tone is like finding a needle in a haystack; except the haystack is filled with over-eager Sephora employees and a migraine-inducing smell of perfume. Sometimes, even the lightest color they have is too dark for my skin and I wonder, "Do I need this? Are the bags under my eyes that noticeable?" Then I look into a mirror and realize I bare a strong resemblance to one of those corny costumes where you paint a P on your shirt and put purple paint around your eye. I don't want to be a black eyed pea unless it's Fergie, so I eventually find a foundation a ghost and I could share.
Wearing white, cream, nude or any shade of light pink is like those dreams people have where you accidentally leave your house naked; except it's not a dream, everyone thinks you're practicing for an episode of "Naked and Afraid" because of the way the colors so seamlessly blend into you.
Sure, I went through an awkward phase as a 13-year-old, (some may argue I am still in that phase), and I thought the only way to fix my problem was with a spray tan. The experience was nothing but one discomfort after another. Being nude in a suspicious shower while you're ambushed by orange mist, all in the name of "beauty," is a whole new level of exposed. I went through two weeks looking like a teenage Donald Trump before I realized my beauty lies within me, not on the surface. HA! Kidding, I just didn't want my fingers to look like I had recently polished off a bag of Cheetos.
The moral of the story is, even though you can see my veins a little too clearly, and even though my celebrity look-a-like may be Casper The Friendly Ghost, back in the days, being pale was considered a sign of royalty and beauty. So joke's on you. Peasants.
