It is a gorgeous spring afternoon, and I am in the backyard sunning myself. When people admire my golden glow on Monday at work, I will tell them that I "worked" in the yard this weekend to dispel the assumption that I have been going to a tanning bed.
And anyway, I DID work in the yard this weekend. Just not very much. Blowing the pine needles off the porch with the Black and Decker blower, and playing with Dave and the kids doesn't technically qualify as work, but thats my story and I'm stuck to it.
The truth of it is...I like having a tan. Being tan makes me feel thinner, prettier, healthier and downright more OK. I have always placed a goofy value on tan-ness; I don't care to think about the hours than I have wasted laying on my butt in the sun.
At least I've put away the baby oil and iodine concoction of the 1980s, which almost certainly tripled the UV intensity and damage to my skin. I don't fool around with lemon juice in my hair anymore either - these days I sweat like a pig and it just runs in my eyes and makes me cranky.
But I do look forward to those first tell-tale tan lines, the ones that result from me parking it in the backyard whilst sporting a grubby wife-beater undershirt that I reserve for just such an occasion (can't have the farmer tan lines from a t-shirt, after all...) I check my progress periodically by comparing the palm of my right hand to the back of my left hand. Looking good.
And yes, there is a definitive history of melanoma in my family, and yes, I have been sunburned at least fifty times in my life. And yes, I think about it a little bit, especially when people feel compelled to tell me about someone they know who had to have part of their nose cut out on account of skin cancer.
And no, I'm not stupid. Well, maybe I am - when it comes to having a tan.
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