We hadn't taken a family vacation in a long time. I'm embarrassed to admit that we packed our bags one week before we left and placed our luggage at the foot of our beds like expectant mothers-to-be. The night before we left on our trip, I awoke every two hours worried we'd miss our 6 a.m. flight to Phoenix.

From the plane's window, I felt the warmth from the Arizona sun on my face. I'm pale in comparison to the rest of my family. It's not like I look iron-deficient — let's just say my skin color attracts the sun's rays like solar-powered rotating mirrors. So I looked forward to getting a little color.

My sunbathing days ended when our youngest child dog paddled from the baby pool into the adult pool. Nowadays, I sunbathe wearing SPF 75 sunblock, a hat, Greta Garbo sunglasses and a swimsuit cover-up that looks like a Hazmat suit.

We stayed in Scottsdale, Ariz., at a "La Femme Nikita"-style urban resort. Long white drapes that seemed to come down out of the clouds framed the entrance to the hotel's entrance. We walked through the lobby past the white Botticelli-esque floor lamps in the shape of naked bodies. While my husband checked in at the front desk, I sat down in one of the oversized white wing chairs. I saw my reflection in the mirror made from pink glass — it was like looking at myself through rose-colored glasses.

The only punches of color came from the tropical bougainvillea and the red apples placed strategically under red lights throughout the hotel. In our room there were white lamps, white towels and white bed linens. It was enough to make me want to go tan.

Temperatures that day reached high-80s with no humidity — a perfect day for me to lie out by the pool. I packed my beachbag with the necessary items: sunblock, book, iPod, cell phone, and hotel Privileged Guest Card. I found a shaded area and parked myself.

The pool waitresses wore white midriff tops and white short shorts. They were beautiful, slender, tan women who made me question my sexuality. I ordered a rum concoction, a sweet deceptive drink that I drank too fast. Now relaxed, and feeling less intimidated, I took off my cover-up. I put in my earbuds and listened to Amy Winehouse. Before I could count backward from 100, I drifted to lala land.

I stayed there until I felt someone poke my arm. "Whoa. You're really red," my husband said.

"I must've dozed off."

Arizona's temperatures are a lot like rum drinks — you don't feel it until it's too late. I was so excited to be on vacation and see and feel the sun that I forgot to apply sunblock. Please no lectures.

I'd been in the sun maybe two hours, max. The sun warmed my skin to the point of tingling — and cooked my skin magenta.

Later that afternoon, my family and I went shopping. People walked by me and winced. "Is it me, or has the temperature dropped 50 degrees?" I asked.

"We need to get you some aloe. Fast," my husband said.

By the time we arrived back to the hotel my skin looked like chicken under a heat lamp. I took a cold shower. A word of warning for the sunburned: Before getting into the shower turn the water faucet to COLD and the showerhead OFF pulsate.

Later that night, on our way to the restaurant, I walked through all the misters. By the time I reached the restaurant I looked dewy. A sympathetic, tan waiter sat me underneath a fog of mist and handed me extra napkins. My husband joked about not needing to light the candle at the table. I was enough mood lighting, he said.

After dinner my husband and I stopped off to have a nightcap at the hotel lounge. I passed the mirror and saw my rose-colored reflection. Hmm, I don't look so red, I thought. A hostess greeted us at the entrance to the lounge, "Welcome to the Red Bar."

To find out more about Mimi Kopulos and read her past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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