Nineteenth Century Skin
It's the first day of summer, and the day is worthy of the name. So why am I not making plans to hit the beach for the first time this year? Because I'm a water bather, not a sunbather. The water temperature is supposed to peak at 17ºC today, and the air temperature reach 27ºC (though I think it's passed that point by now), while the UV index is supposed to be 9. My idea of a good summer's day is not to roast like a peanut on a towel.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be tan. When I was a girl I would spend as much time as possible in the sun and earn a sunburn. While everyone around me turned brown, I'd turn a nice vermilion. My problem was the white as alabaster skin I had been endowed with at birth. An aristocratic lady of the nineteenth century would have killed for my skin, but not a normal teenager of the late twentieth. Some summers I would despair. I would try different sun tan lotions with different SPF's. I would go ecstatic when, upon removing my watch, there would be the faintest of lines of whiter skin where it had been clasped. But I would never get as tan as some of my classmates. I would consider myself tanned when, by the end of the summer, my skin had a healthy, very light beige cast. The rest of the year I would look like a prisoner from the Chateau d'If.
The year I got married I went to the beach as often as possible, and slathered myself with lotion. I was determined that my skin not be the same color as my dress. I did it. At the end of the summer my skin color was slightly darker than the white dress. At least you could tell where the dress ended and my skin began.
After that, though I continued going to the beach and trying to tan, I gradually gave up on it. When I was pregnant I made sure to sit in the shade of my umbrella, and was in the sun mostly when I was in the water. I learned to swim late, when I was in my twenties. One day I discovered I could float and then tried to move in the water. I managed to do so, but my stroke would give a good swimmer a laugh attack so bad, he would double up on the ground, and have to be carried away on a stretcher. Still, I can move in the water, but don't ask me to stick my head under it. To me, that's still part of drowning, not swimming.
Now, whenever I go to the beach, I go to one that has trees, grass, and shade. I stretch out my towel on the grass in the shade, check the water, swim if it's not freezing, and go back to the towel to read and eat an ice cream while I dry off. I know I'll never be a nice, rich tan, and I've come to accept it. I now enjoy the beach as a place to cool off and catch a seabreeze while I laze. Besides, who likes to sweat in the blistering sun? Not me.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be tan. When I was a girl I would spend as much time as possible in the sun and earn a sunburn. While everyone around me turned brown, I'd turn a nice vermilion. My problem was the white as alabaster skin I had been endowed with at birth. An aristocratic lady of the nineteenth century would have killed for my skin, but not a normal teenager of the late twentieth. Some summers I would despair. I would try different sun tan lotions with different SPF's. I would go ecstatic when, upon removing my watch, there would be the faintest of lines of whiter skin where it had been clasped. But I would never get as tan as some of my classmates. I would consider myself tanned when, by the end of the summer, my skin had a healthy, very light beige cast. The rest of the year I would look like a prisoner from the Chateau d'If.
The year I got married I went to the beach as often as possible, and slathered myself with lotion. I was determined that my skin not be the same color as my dress. I did it. At the end of the summer my skin color was slightly darker than the white dress. At least you could tell where the dress ended and my skin began.
After that, though I continued going to the beach and trying to tan, I gradually gave up on it. When I was pregnant I made sure to sit in the shade of my umbrella, and was in the sun mostly when I was in the water. I learned to swim late, when I was in my twenties. One day I discovered I could float and then tried to move in the water. I managed to do so, but my stroke would give a good swimmer a laugh attack so bad, he would double up on the ground, and have to be carried away on a stretcher. Still, I can move in the water, but don't ask me to stick my head under it. To me, that's still part of drowning, not swimming.
Now, whenever I go to the beach, I go to one that has trees, grass, and shade. I stretch out my towel on the grass in the shade, check the water, swim if it's not freezing, and go back to the towel to read and eat an ice cream while I dry off. I know I'll never be a nice, rich tan, and I've come to accept it. I now enjoy the beach as a place to cool off and catch a seabreeze while I laze. Besides, who likes to sweat in the blistering sun? Not me.
I peel and burn. Skin strips aren't pretty. My daughter despite being blond and blue eyed use to get a brown that made her darker than two of my black vendors. Her hair turned almost white. Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
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