Once upon a time, alabaster skin was a thing of beauty, an object of desire. Ladies of substance shielded their complexions from the sun’s harmful rays; tanned skin was an unseemly mark of the proletariat.

In the 1920’s, however, the French figured out that a suntan actually makes one appear healthier, thinner, and generally more attractive. By the time I arrived in the 1970’s, white was merely a sundress color designed to show off a savage tan.

Thanks for nothing, Coco Chanel.

I raged for years against my pallid destiny. Every June during my teens I would head to the backyard with sunglasses, iced tea, and Coppertone in tow for my annual attempt to get a tan. I would sit in the sun for about half an hour before getting too bored and hot to continue.

A subsequent hopeful look in the bathroom mirror always revealed the same thing: about 800 new freckles and glowing white strap lines on my pink shoulders.

In my thirties, as I’m growing more intrigued by Botox than by Sun-In, my perspective on tanning has evolved. Last week I sat around the community baby pool with three other moms, all of us covered in hats, glasses, and pareos. We looked over at the skinny, firm young things in the adjacent big pool and sighed.

Each of us women had recently had a run-in with our dermatologist. One woman went in for a cosmetic pick-me-up and ended up getting pre-cancerous cells removed. Others had suspicious moles removed. My doctor had the nerve to refer to my ubiquitous freckles — properly known as angel kisses! — as pervasive sun damage. All of us wanted to shake some sense into the bikini-clad girls — a.k.a. our teenage selves — roasting in deck chairs nearby.

I’ve tried sunless tanning. This year I tried Loreal spray tan on my legs. It worked pretty well, except for the places where I accidentally dripped water onto my leg right after applying the spray, thus causing an interesting but not attractive Swiss cheese effect on my inner thigh.

Four years ago I tried Mystic Tanning. The results weren’t great (I got freakish orange marks all over my hands and feet), so I waited awhile before trying again. Last week I did, and the results were better, but still not ideal.

Some findings:
1. It’s expensive! One visit costs $26. Multiple visit packages are cheaper per use.
2. The orange marks on my hands and feet were much improved, but still a bit off-putting. Applying the “Blending Cream” to prevent these marks is an art, not a science.
3. The color is on your outer layers of skin, which has its drawbacks. A hearty scratch left light claw marks on my skin. Also, I ran into a knee-high bed post, causing the darker skin to peel off like celophane, leaving a conspicuous white circle in the middle of my leg.
4. The color rubs off on your clothes. The inside of my bathing suit had a weird “Shroud of Turin” effect after a day of swimming.

The salon itself (I went to Palm Beach Tan) was a little depressing as well. It’s like the Eighties never left. Despite all the warnings we’ve received about UV exposure, they still talk about “healthy tans” and “getting a base tan.” I saw a beautiful little redheaded girl with gorgeous peaches and cream skin. She was using her unlimited monthly tanning bed pass. I guess they skip the backyard pilgrimages these days.

You can’t fight city hall, and you can’t give a redhead a safe tan. At least my children are luckier; I expressly married a man with some pigment to give them a fighting chance. Despite the sunscreen I slather on them, they’re all at least four shades darker than I am.

As for me, I’ll never give up hope. The perfect product is out there somewhere; look for more orange knuckles coming soon.