On the first day of summer, it seems only appropriate to comment on my requisite use of sun protection. Now, it is pissing rain here, and they [yes, the ubiquitous weather-predicting “they”] are threatening thunder storms, but I’m sure that’s beside the point.
It’s probably a good thing that I live on the wet coast. Sun and I have a tenuous relationship. I enjoy it, in small doses of moderate warmth and vitamin D, and it does it’s best to make sure that I don’t enjoy it at all.
In the full force of sunlight, I get a wee bit blotchy. I may get groggy, light headed or, I’m told, temperamental. In small, repetitive doses, I get a marginal farmers’ tan and a few more freckles on my arms and face. I don’t think my legs have tanned since high school and I’m pretty sure my stomach could be used to send reflective signals into outer space. At worst, I’m pasty; at best, semi-transparent.
So, I spend my summers slathering on SPFs of increasing numbers. Despite all the dire warnings, it still seems, on some level, rather counter-productive to purposely go out into the sun wearing shorts and tanks, only to coat oneself in sun-deflecting lotion. I know I need to get over that, but some days….it’s just not right. Maybe I need a little healthy colour or, at least, evenly distributed colour. What if my back matched the backs of my arms?
Oh, I know. Tanning is bad for you. And so, against my wild’n’crazy inner rebel, I don’t.
Sitting inside in front of the computer too much is bad for you too.
But you don’t get sunburned.