STRANGER THAN FICTION: TIME TO BREAK OUT THE COPPERTONE, HONEY

First things first.

Sorry about skipping the column last week. I was on my way to work Friday afternoon and decided to stop at Taco Bell. I ordered the usual, two "lite" tacos and a diet Pepsi.

"We don't have `lite' stuff anymore," a voice roared out of the speaker.

After a week of devastation and a prescription for anti-depressants, I think I'm ready to write again. Be strong, fellow sufferers!

Of course, nothing cures depression like a good dose of ultraviolet rays, and apparently this is the season to get them. People are flocking like lemmings to get inside tanning beds.

The Other Half and I were cruising through St. Louis last week, listening to radio ads for tanning salons. One advertised locations with FOUR STORIES, more than 30 beds and 24-hour service. Now that's a lot of melanoma.

Tanning salons here in Cape Girardeau aren't as huge but are equally popular, I'm sure. The owner of one gave me a card for a free session. One free session of tanning doesn't do much for you. If you're light skinned, you burn, hurt, peel and fade within two days.

I said I'd give the card to Mr. Half.

Yes, folks, my husband was once a tanning nut. Car repairs? Forget it. Flowers for his fiancee? Never mind. The tan was all that mattered! The tan, I tell you!

Something is strange about men who tan. Men aren't supposed to be that concerned about their appearance. Look at John Wayne. Can you imagine HIM getting naked in an ultraviolet coffin for 20 minutes a day just to impress women? No! John Wayne was happy having a tan on his face, hands and any part of his neck his bandanna didn't cover. He was white as an albino catfish everywhere else.

Not that I'd know.

Women, on the other hand, generally want to look like leather handbags. It's in our nature.

I bugged Mr. Half about his tanning expenditures for months before finally getting my revenge. He had been tanning in nothing but his Calvins and finally decided to shed them.

Tan body, white fanny -- you know the rest of the story. He couldn't sit still for a week.

Mr. Half just glared at me when I tried to give him the free tanning coupon, even after I explained he could use a stand-up bed designed like an ancient implement of torture.

Even though I'm not doing any indoor tanning this year, that doesn't mean I won't tan at all. Mr. Half and I moved into an apartment with a gargantuan deck, and it would be a shame to waste it.

A recent review of the deck revealed that part of it can't be seen from the parking lot or road. Only my upstairs neighbor, leaning over the edge of his deck, could see this section of mine.

This means I'll be tanning naked this summer, that is, if I can find a lounge chair wide enough. No unsightly tan lines on my cellulite this summer, baby!

And if the upstairs neighbor leans over the edge of his deck, he deserves what he gets.

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.