Category: Life

Oh So Ready

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My sister asked me if I was ready for next week. Am I ready? I have been mentally ticking down the days, practically the hours until next week. Too bad it’s the end of next week that I have to wait for. The wait can kill me.

I’ll start off by making the drive to Portland. Part of me wants to load up the billion ME/CA only returnables and finally make a return on them (think of all the nickels I’ll get! They might pay the parking meter…) Then maybe I’ll be able to get through the basement…
Then it’s a boat trip to Peaks. I’m tempted to bring running gear because the run ways out there are so beautiful. It’s a crazy mix of ocean, pines, pavement, big luxury houses, small shacks, horses, wildflowers, dirt and sea salt air. Different scenery than what I see everyday and different is good. Very good.
Babysitting the Bebe. I’m sure my sister is worried. I haven’t dealt with a child under the age of 30 in over a decade. There’s a voice in my head that reasons, “how hard can it be?” while another counters, “there’s a reason you don’t have one yourself.” Oh yeah. So, I’m looking forward to being a cool aunt trying to stay calm. I’m only half kidding.
Then. Then. Then! There is Monfreakinhegan. CanNOT wait to get there. It’s been almost a year. A full fukcing year. I tell anyone who will listen I am never doing that again. Memorial Day, 4th of July, Labor Day & Columbus Day. Those will be my dates next year. Count on it.

I am oh so ready.

My Day

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Kisa sent me a link today. Said it was my day for my kind. My Day. A day for Lefties. A day dedicated to 10% of the population…those being not right handed. Imagine that! Needless to say I automatically joined the club and then immediately questioned my qualifications. Even felt a little guilty about printing out the certificate…(but it’s a pretty certificate).

I’m not entirely all right brained. This dominate right hand world has taught me a little something about compromise. Think about it. Try using a computer mouse in your left hand. Try holding a pair of scissors upside down. It’s a little screwy. So, I adapted. Here’s more: I throw a ball equally as bad with my left as with my right. I play golf right handed. I zest lemon rind with my right. Nutmeg, too. Peel potatoes righty. Even pick my nose with the right. So, am I right to belong to a left-handed club? Hmmmm….

When to Hold ‘Em

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When I was a kid Kenny Rogers was cool. More than cool. His ‘Coward of the County’ was king. His ‘Gambler’ was even cooler than that. I didn’t know much about gambling, the card playing kind. But, I knew about taking risks. Or, as Natalie says, “taking dares with yes.” I stretched my safety to the limits, kicked at the walls of my comfort zone all the time. It’s the only way I knew how to be. If there was a line to walk I wobbled just outside of it. Teetered on the edge of trouble. I think I was so terrible because I couldn’t get attention. Not the kind I craved. The line “when to hold ’em” was always “when to hold ME” in my mind. And I lived by the options of walking or running away. Did it all the time. If it wasn’t a physical move-to-a-new-state-no-forwarding-address kind of move it was an I Need To End This Relationship Right Now kind of running away. Shutting down, kicking someone out. Let me leave you before you leave me. Allow me to hurt myself before you do it for me. Walking or running I was always leaving someone or something.

As an adult here’s what bothers me about Kenny’s song. He says “Know when to walk away, know when to run.” Well, what about staying? Wasn’t that ever an option in his world or mine? Just sitting right there, not flinching a muscle. Not twitching a lip. Doing absolutely nothing. Being braver than brave for not bolting. I don’t get it or me. Wasn’t I stronger than that? I don’t think I’ll ever know the answer to that. Really.

Happiness Game

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Happiness is…taking a half day to visit the farm. Happiness is knowing everything is going to be alright, eventually. Happiness is….

I play this game all the time. Whenever I am overcome by being happy I have this habit of identifying the source of emotion. I haven’t acknowledged my feeling until I can fill in the blank. Something I picked up from therapy. A little weird, but there it is.

Today, coming back from the farm I felt giddy, euphoric even. My impulse was to think “on the verge of a psychotic snap” because I had just spent 40 minutes standing in the pouring rain, searching for tomatillos, the ones that had burst through their paper-lantern shells. I had given up on the cherry tomatoes 10 minutes earlier. We were allowed two quarts and for some reason my heart wasn’t in hunt. The recent storms have knocked down all the trailing twine and posts so picking tomatoes off the vine is literally hunching over, pulling up sodden leaves to look for orange orbs. We already have so many! So, I opted for just one quart and moved onto my goddess, the tomatillo.

I don’t think I can fully express my obsession with this green tomato-like, apple-like, hint of lime wonder. As the rain continued in sheets, soaking me to the bone, I stood there quietly, carefully surveying the harvest. Only the ones that had successfully burst through their paper shells were ready for picking and in the pouring rain it was impossible to tell. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a cobalt blue raincoat standing and staring on the other side of the row. “Are we crazy?” the man under the cobalt asked me when our eyes met. “I wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t for the tomatillos.” I replied as I raised a hand in greeting. My hand said “Yup, we are crazy” even as my voice made excuses. Soon he came around to my row and said “what’s a tomatillo?” I pulled one of out my bag and launched into cooking school mode. “They’re like a tart tomato, think granny smith – think Mexican food…”  Meanwhile an obese drop of rain hung on the man’s nose, another in his eyelashes. A mosquito bit my neck. “Ah…” the man nodded. Why, I’m not sure. He told me the raspberries were worth the rain. I was anxious to move onto Italian flat leaf parsley but didn’t say so. Instead, I laughed and admitted the raspberries might have to wait a week. My sneakers were filled with silt. My canvas pants clung to my calves. Mud graced the cuffs. Grit was in my teeth from sneaking a cherry tomato. Dirt was under my nails and I’m sure, smudged on my face. Rain’s wet had found it’s way through my raincoat. It started to run down my back. Still I wished my picking companion a nice weekend and grinning like a fool, made my way back to the car.

Green peppers, zucchini, summer squash, onions, carrots, hot peppers, cucumbers, eggplant, lettuce, kale, cilantro, dill, honeydew, watermelon, arugula, thyme, sage, plum and cherry tomatoes…and tomatillos. Happiness is all that.

Standing on the Platform…

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For those of you in the know, you know that’s the beginning of a line from the movie Sliding Doors, one of my all time favs. The scene cracks me up.
But, back to the platform. That’s me. Standing on the platform in Indecision City. A really nice author friend likes my book reviews. She’s said as much. Like I said, really nice. But, and it’s a big but, she’s not so wild about the ranting. She gets a little squeamish when I mention the bullsh!t. Especially when it relates to my life. TMI! “I like what you read. I like how your brain works when you read. Your heart…well, it’s more than I need to know.” Odd. I say odd because most people classify my “reviews” as dry, without substance…the stuff they mutter “yeahyeahyeahwhatever” about as they scroll to the juicier bits. Hmmm. Here’s someone on the other side. A first!

So, this got me thinking. Do I split hairs with topics and separate my blogs? In truth, I’m already doing that. I “journal” my workout sessions, running miles, eating habits and yoga (dis)graces in another blog, just around the corner from here. It gets like two hits a day, but I’m okay with that. I just needed another space to fill up with “My shoulder keeps popping during overhead presses. This is NOT normal!”
So. Do I weed out the writing about reading and put it somewhere else? Start a fourth blog? Seems kind of excessive, right? Well, not if I would be writing those things anyway…Each blog would have more relevance to one thing. Maybe the BookLust Challenge blog would end up on someone else’s “review list” or something…

Or do I embrace life as I know it? Keep running&yoga where it is. Keep books&blatherings together in an unlikely (but surviving) marriage? There is no doubt I was hurt by someone stealing my creativity and passing it off as her own. I’m not flattered. But, I’m also not deterred. I will not stop using these spaces as creative outlets. Write on I will. But, here’s the question – how?

ps~ this was supposed to be the real  blog of the day!

Nice Guys Never

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Power Hungry

I think I’ve said it a billion and one times. Today makes a billion and two. I always root for the underdog. That doesn’t mean I like the self-professed Homer/Family Guy; the guy who is proud to be life’s class clown fukc-up. Kisa, when I first met him said “I’m dumb.” But, that didn’t mean he was describing his whole IQ in a nutshell. He meant when it comes to meaningful relationships he’s not Mensa. I like that honesty, that soul-baring GiveMeAbreak mea culpa. I’ve Never Done This Before kind of virginity.

Let me clarify one thing. Underdog doesn’t mean under-confident, under-powered, under anything. Really.
I think I speak for every woman out there when I say tough is attractive. There’s a reason why the bad boy wins and nice guys finish last. Sometimes. Confidence is kickazz. Awkward is…well…awkward. Daring James Dean trumps goofy Gilligan every single time. Why am I saying this? Well, I’m tired of that guy saying he’ll never find someone. I know why. He knows why. He sells himself short. He takes pride in being a punching bag, the punchline to someone else’s joke. Meek is murder on meeting people. It’s frustrating when the personality has flat lined five minutes into the conversation. The underdog is scrappy, a fighter, a face to be reckoned with – not walked over. I was telling a friend about Kisa and she exclaimed, “but he’s such a nice guy!” Yeah, he’s nice, but not exactly innocent when it comes to trouble.

I came across someone’s Woe Is Me-ness the other day. If I had a remote I would have changed the channel. No, if I had a remote I would have hit the mute button. No, no, no! If I had a remote I would have shut the whole thing off. Here’s a tip, boyfriend: you are smart, you are funny, you are even cute to boot. Stop whining about what wasn’t or what was at one time and wonder what could be. Stop telling me how everything about your life falls short. Do something about it. Do something about you. Really. Be a man for fukc’s sake. Or, if you can’t be a man, be a bad boy.

Culture Crisis

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Fly High

I don’t know how to say this. Well, I don’t know how to say this without coming off as a cultural snob, but there is no refinery in my life right now. I wanted to see two nights of Natalie at the symphony. I was willing to pay someone’s way just to have a second night w-i-t-h someone (and not just sharing a table and maybe a bottle of wine with a complete stranger). Call me generous but my motives were selfish. Call me selfish but I would have paid the way. The whole way. The problem was I couldn’t think of a single person who would sit through orchestral music. No offense, but I’m having a culture crisis.

I need people in my life who want to look at art from the back of the room. The kind of person who not only sits and stares at art, but collects it as well. Cherishes it rather than chucks it. Someone who doesn’t get their wall decore from A.C. Moore. I want to know people who hear a cello live and call it an experience to remember. Music that moves them beyond screaming teenage fantasies. I desire people who would rather savor their food than chew, choke and swallow it. Can close their eyes and say, “cilantro…with a hint of lime” rather than, “there’s something funky with this rice…”

Show me someone who reads poetry, watches documentaries, understands fresh basil, and can handle a song without words. Show me someone who reads biographies, goes to the theater, knows a good Alfredo sauce, and hears the protest in folk music. Show me because I’m tired of Cosmopolitan magazine, Dumb & Dumber, dried oregano, and Hannah Montana.

*Edited to add: When I voiced this angst rather than post it, a friend took me to the theater. Another friend said, “I’ll go with ya!” I guess all I had to do was ask. I don’t know if that would have worked for the Boston Symphony Orchestra, but now I know…It doesn’t hurt to ask!*

August Is…

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August is a day late. Sorry about that!

It is awful to wish the summer away. To look forward to Labor Day…but I can’t help it. The time has (finally) come for me to go home. And I haven’t been there since last October!  August is all about going back to the island. I’m bringing a truckload of books:

  • All is Vanity by Christina Schwartz (in honor of Womens Friendship Month)
  • Boy with Loaded Gun by Lewis Nordan (in honor of Lewis Nordan’s birthday)
  • Far Field by Edie Meidav (August is the best time to visit Sri Lanka, believe it or not)
  • Dog Handling by Clare Naylor (August has a “woman’s day” so I’m reading what Pearl calls “chick lit”)
  • Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester (National Language Month)

It seems traitorish to think that the island’s library won’t have any of these books, but I can’t take the chance by assuming they do…and here’s the funny part- I don’t leave until the latter half of the month. I’m acting as if I won’t read a word before then! I’m actually hoping to have All is Vanity and Boy with Loaded Gun finished and off my list before leaving.

I scored another LibraryThing Early Review:

Blackbird, Farewell by Robert Greer. I am excited about this new book for odd reasons. For starters, I love the title! There is something about blackbirds. I love how they are associated with something dark and ominous. Dangerous. If you ever get the chance, check out Jamie Wyeth’s art. He has some great blackbird paintings. I also love the song ‘Blackbird’ (Jerry Garcia’s version is my favorite). Nearly everyone who has ever made me a mixed tape has put that song on one for me. I don’t know why…Maybe they have insight about my broken wings and the need to fly? Anyway, this book doesn’t have anything to do with blackbirds….funny.

August is also a Police concert (awesome, awesome, awesome by the way – blog coming soon), more trips to see Sean Rowe, Swell Season in my back yard, maybe Rebecca Correia. Should be an interesting month! Speaking of flying, I hope it does!

Taken Seriously

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There are some people you want to write off because they never mean what they say. Wait. Actually, I’m one of those people when I say I’ll call you. I hardly ever come through with dialing the digits. I think those kinds of short comings are okay, though. Those I’ll-Get-Around-To-It people who somehow never really do. They are okay. You chalk it up to they mean well, but don’t do well. If that makes sense. Manny being Manny kind of excusability.

Yet. And, yet. It’s different when it concerns the heart. Admitting emotion. “I care” when you or you really doesn’t. “I miss you” when you haven’t thought of that you for months or even years. “I love your….” when really, you find them and their [fill in the blank] annoying. Why is that? Why is it that I find a lie of emotion harder to swallow than a lie of action?
I’m trying to make sense of this. Really, I am. I find myself beating moi or me up because I mean well but don’t say well. It translates into not caring well, not feeling well. Being ill. Not nice. Or something.

I’m reading a book about someone who is self-centered and vain. She makes excuses for her superior attitude, like she has earned it, therefore can flaunt it. Wear it not so well. This character lies with emotion about emotion. Even that drives me nuts. Why is that? Why can’t what you say be taken seriously? Not by me, myself and moi, the listening, but youyouyou, the talking?

I think I have it figured out. A lie of action is excusable because it’s tangible. It doesn’t have to be an out and out lie. Something came up. Something always does. Then it’s not a lie, it’s a meant well statement. A lie of the heart is something completely and utterly different. Exposing an emotion isn’t necessary. That’s your call. You don’t have to say it. I never need to know what you’re feeling. Exposing an emotion when it isn’t truly felt is beyond inexcusable. It’s downright mean.

So. Don’t tell me you miss me. Because I can’t take it seriously if I can’t believe it.

Sunday Morning Routine

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We have settled into some semblance of a Sunday morning routine. Catching up on myself’s shows first thing in the morning. Awake but not getting out of bed, cheating morning and waking and thinking for another hour. The Food Network. Coffee. Hot and fresh brewed. I’m up but not.

Later. House hunting. We map each address in order of distance and time. Open houses. That one doesn’t start until 1pm. Let’s save it until last. Go here first. So it goes. So many questions. How is the neighborhood? Is it a hood? Can I walk the walk or will they send me running? How far from the street is it? How many cars can fit in the driveway? What if we actually (gasp) have people over? Garage? Kitchen? Counter space? Gas or electric? Can I socialize while stirring and sauteing? Will my butt hit the fridge while standing at the sink? Fireplace? Ceiling fans? Ranch? Colonial? Cape? WTF? Basements finished or frightening? Security system or do we get a dog? Closets walk in or full of skeletons? Porch, deck or patio? All three? Lawn to mow? Dude room? Workout room? Laundry room? Indiana room? Mudroom? Guest room? Gawd forbid we want someone to actually spend the night! Bathrooms 1, 1.5, or 2? Central air? Central vac? Central to work? Hardwood or wall to wall? Marble or laminate? Grand or gross?

We walk through old house after new house, roomy room after teeny-tiny room. Agents follow us with the details: one owner, built in —-, new roof, updated kitchen, close to schools…I take notes to show interest but have no intentions. No set plan. Everything has something. Nothing has nothing, well, except Sanders. Can’t decide. Don’t want to decide. Not now. No rush to move. Kisa brings up another house. I shut him down. Let’s not go there. Literally or figuratively. I’m done with the red house on the corner. We’ll keep on looking. Keep on searching.

And so next weekend we’ll watch tv in bed to wake up and catch up. Coffee and the paper. A map. More open houses. New emails. New agents. New addresses. Keeping with the new Sunday routine.
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Not One Step

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I didn’t run on my last vacation. Not one step. In Vegas I seriously thought about it. The gym was hidden in the spa. Amongst the hair dryers and manicure stations were treadmills and elipticals. I told kisa, “when you gamble, I’ll run.” To make a long story short, he never sat down to a slot machine, never pulled up a chair for a hand of Black Jack, never spun the Roulette wheel, nor threw the die for craps. The only gambling he did was on the Celtics (and won). So. I didn’t run.
At the next hotel I got up early hoping to put in a quick 30 minutes in the gym. It wasn’t nearly as nice as Vegas’s setup but I was eager to try it out all the same. Just off the registration desk was a little gym. One bike. One step machine. One treadmill. Oddly enough, the “business center” was in the same room. Two computers, a fax machine and phone lined one wall. I guess the west coast likes to consolidate their tasks -run while closing the deal? Oh well. I figured I could ignore anyone who came in. Turns out, I didn’t need to. The treadmill was broken. Try as I might I couldn’t get the thing to stay on. Finally, I asked at the front desk, “Is your treadmill broken?” The manager just looked at me, bored, and said “yup” like I was supposed to know that before I got dressed and came over from my room. Stupid.
The third place we stayed looked more than promising for a run. They didn’t boast of their own equipment but shared space with a real, live, local gym. Hotel guests could work out for free at the area’s state of the art fitness facility. When Kisa and I toured the building I needed to put my eyeballs back in my head: olympic sized swimming pool, pilates room, two weight rooms, more cardio equipment than I could count, a yoga studio, racquet ball court, tennis court, you name it, it was there. They too combined their fitness center with a salon – facials, pedicures, manicures, haircuts and color…all in one place.
When Kisa and I finally changed our clothes and went back to the gym I was practically salviating at the chance to run. Until I saw nearly every treadmill in sight was in use. Upon further inspection I realized not only was every working treadmill was in use, but half a dozen were broken and I couldn’t compete with the wait list. I ended up on a bike for 40 minutes.
The final hotel was super nice…except it didn’t have a gym. Period. Not one machine anywhere. No running for me. I would have run outside but Southern CA was boasting of a heatwave like no other. I’m not that stupid.

Jealous Again

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I’ve got the Black Crowes in my head. “Jealous. Jealous again.” Because I am. Of you. I have exactly 44 days until I can go homehome. 44 days to deal with being landlocked and loser. I always think of you when I hear the Black Crowes but this time it’s more than that. You were there. You could have bragged about it. You didn’t. Instead, you let me down easy. Talking more about the weather than what I was missing. I got weather here, too. I wanted to crawl through the phone and smell the salt in your hair. You were just there. What made me ask? Torturing myself with the wanting. How was the pizza? Where did you hike? Was it crowded? I stopped short of asking how the sea smelled, how the surf sounded on the shore, what was in bloom. Stopped short of being pitiful, but wanting all the same.

I reminded myself of someone I knew once. She would flip through fashion magazines and Victoria’s Secret catalogs and ask her boyfriend, “Do you think she’s pretty? Do you like her legs?” as she shoved the glossy near naked women in his face. “Well? Well?” What was she looking for? A lie? Could she handle the truth? What made her force the admission?

Funny thing about jealousy. It changes everything once it flares up and rages out of control. Like a fire, things get out of hand if not handled properly. People say stupid things when they are bit by the ugly green eye. Jealousy. Things become infected by jealousy. You lose things to jealousy. Things burn up in jealousy. Friends. Relationships. Things. Life as we knew it. Life period. I sort through the rubble, bits of charred emotions still smoking. Make my way through what I want to salvage, deciding what is worth keeping. Nothing. I decide nothing is worth salvaging. Let it burn I say. I’ll be home in 44 days.

What You Owe Me

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What you owe me is an apology. An apology for being so fukcing insensitive. An apology for thinking we are close enough for that elbow-in-the-ribs-just kidding-hardy-har-har sh!t. Didn’t you notice the silence that followed? The slow, drawn out, dripping with barely contained sarcasm when he replied, “riiiighhht….” Was the tension thick enough or did you move right through it oblivious (as usual)?
This is a public rant so filled with anger you might want to turn your heads. Someone touch a nerve you ask? Not hardly. This wound is so raw, so tired of people poking at it, never giving it time to heal that it has bled dry. Nothing left to give. It gets tiring, always making excuses, pretending to be brazen and beyond it all. Well, not anymore.
DINK. Dual Income No Kids. Also stands for Didn’t I Not Know? Here’s what you don’t know. I’ll break it down for you:
Dual Income – yes because neither one of us is in it for the money we need both incomes to live the life we want. Neither of us has the luxury of being a stay at home anythings. Dual income because we love the work we do. Wouldn’t change a thing even though it means working for nuts and peanuts.

No Kids – Here’s where I gnash teeth and spit nails because you have no clue what you are talking about. Did you ever consider this: Clinically infertile. Barren. Irrevocable damaged goods. WhatE-v-e-r you want to call it. No natural born killers kids. No. Maybe there was a kid and now he’s gone and nothing can replace him? One shot deal. Adoption is a laughable gesture. Who in their right mind wants to hand over a kid to someone who has lost a mind; been to the funny farm? Has a shrink on speed dial? Has tried to commit suicide more than once? Has mental moments on an almost daily basis? Give me a fukcing break.
There comes a time when you know something just wasn’t meant to be. Seriously. You don’t pine away. You don’t cry over spilt sperm. You pick your azz up and carry on. Last but not least, you don’t take too kindly to the nickname dink.
So, back to what you owe me. Dink.

Lost Without It

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Me without my right hand ring is like not having a right hand at all. Friday night seemed normal enough. Nothing out of the ordinary. Exchanged texts with a friend and laughed about his upcoming gigs. Worked out. Took a cold bath but washed my hair standing over the tub, bent under the faucet. Later, I read a chapter in bed, a cool sheet draped over my knees. Coming into the home stretch of a really good book I got sleepy. When kisa came to bed I curled around his hip, grateful for the sleep that was coming fast & easy.

I couldn’t tell you what made me notice; what made me panic, but all of a sudden I felt my thumb ring was gone. For nearly 7 years this silver band with cod worn smooth swimming clockwise has not left my right hand. It’s my symbolic home away from home and suddenly it was missing. A strip of pale white skin marked where the ring should have been. Wide awake with panic I jumped out of bed. Kisa frantically asking “what? What? What’s wrong?” but I couldn’t answer him. It all seemed too stupid. This piece of metal was an extension of my, myself & moi. How could I explain that without it I was completely lost? Even now I don’t expect anyone to understand this whatsoever.

Like a madwoman I retraced my steps. Back to where I lifted. Did I fling it off mid tricep kickback? Wouldn’t I feel something like that? Back to where I undressed for the bath…back to the…bath. Oh no. With dread I remembered standing over the drain, my soapy hands scrubbing my scalp, the force of water when I rinsed (Why did we have to have such great, rushing water pressure?!), the open drain….I pictured the ring slipping off oh so easily and sliding down the drain to be lost forever. It was the only logical explanation. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. That had to be it. Kisa lured me back to bed and with the sulk of a child I went.

By 4:30am I was awake again and crawling around the living room on my hands and knees searching under the couch and in the folds of the fabric. I pictured calling my sister and asking her for the phone number to the shop where I got the ring 7 years earlier. I was getting desperate enough to have another one shipped to me although in my heart of hearts I knew it wouldn’t be the same. Not finding anything downstairs I was drawn back to the bath. Hypnotized by the thought of the ring going down the drain I tested my theory…with my wedding ring. My $1,000+ wedding ring. Holding it tightly I tried to push it down the drain and discovered…it wouldn’t fit. There was hope my ring of fishes didn’t fit either. 

In the end it was tangled in a tank top I had taken off earlier. Somehow it had lodged itself in the built-in bra and didn’t come loose even after I shook the shirt. I think Kisa was relieved I was happy again. I was happy I found my sanity.

You Got Sun

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How many times can people point out the obvious before you want to either bite their heads off or say ‘No Sh!t Sherlock’ which I guess is one and the same… I can gauge my level of tolerance by how soon I start counting things. When I start noticing just how many times something is brought to my attention I know I’m near my annoyed stage, soon to be moving onto my pissed off stage. Scary, but true. It’s like counting to ten before dishing out the punishment to a small child. “If you don’t cut that out before I count to ten! One…two…” Yup. I’m childish. I count.

On my 6th day in California I got the “you got sun” comment 27 times. 27 times. Sometimes more than once by the same person, punctuated by an oohing sound, as in “oooh, looks like you got sun.” You would think I would know how burnt I was by the flame red parboiled look of my taut skin, the faint stingingsensation I felt whenever anything brushed my shoulders….but, no. People still felt the need to point out the obvious. You. Got. Sun. As if I wasn’t embarrassed enough by the fact that the SPF 50 I slathered on earlier had no effect. As if I wanted to be this burnt. I like my skin. I like not having cancer. Lamenting and tsk tsk-ing over my overexposed epidermis only made things worse. It’s not like I went for the singed look on purpose. It’s not like I was enjoying my new look.

Yes, I got sun. Now leave me alone. Go away. But, hey. Hand me the aloe before you go.