Damn sun

After all that crap I was talking about Seattle’s summer, it decided to give me the ultimate proverbial backhand across the ‘ol kisser.  In the form of lobster red skin, burnt to a crispy Peking duck consistency.  But I don’t come with hoisin sauce, instead I offer blistering.

Yea, the ultimate sun burn.

Saturday, a gloriously sunshiney Seattle day.  I had great plans of sitting on the roof top deck, reading a fairly good book while the Man watched the Yankee game on the big screen.  I had been planning this getaway all week, as soon as the weather forecasted 80 degree weather for the weekend.  Saturday morning, I’m piling sunscreen, multiple icy water bottles, a towel, the Sansa! and my book into an oversized tote I got from Target.  Into the elevator and up the 17 floors to the roof.  I slather on the sunscreen.  I have a deep-seated fear of skin cancer and wear it religiously.  I put on the Soulful Reggae box set from Trojan, nestle in and zone out.  I reapply the SPF, I check my legs and shoulders for tale-tell signs of pinking.  Nothing.  A little less than two hours later, I’m inside the house done with my reading.

That evening, the Man remarks fairly frequently on my reddened skin.  I shrug it off.  I’ve been burnt before.  I was practically raised on the shores of Delaware, summers were spent crabbing, and swimming and absorbing as many cancer producing rays as possible during the day.  I could handle a little burn.  I’ll survive.

Yesterday I didn’t think I was going to survive.  My forehead had blistered and one side of my nose.  The side that has my crystal nose ring, I guess it’s a great reflector because that nostril is nice and leathery.  The skin on my shins is so tight it makes my shin bones hurt, I could barely walk around.  The bones, BONES hurt!  The whole front on my legs are a delicious shade of red.  If you were to see me nudie (get that picture out of your head!) you’d think I was wearing tacky red thigh-highs because I had been wearing teeny little short shorts and there’s a great line of demarcation, where my milky white legs slide into scarlet thigh-highs.  My chest is an attractive shade of mottled strawberry, with thin white streaks where my shirt straps protected my precious skin.  Luckily for me, the straps are from my bra too, which is now the only bra I can wear with minimal pain thanks in part to it pre-designating areas to remain unscathed. 

I am a human shaped tomato.  I couldn’t find any professional wear clothing that wasn’t lined with razor blades and threatened to fillet me my ultra tender skin, so I stayed home.  After making that decision, I couldn’t get out of the jury-rigged bra I fandangled myself into and felt like crying.  The Man graciously donated an oversized white Polo undershirt AND ran to the store to buy me after sun lotion and aspirin.  And Skittles.  ‘Cause Skittles makes everything better.  All day the Man had to put up with his beet-colored significant other wandering around on stiff limps, whimpering, holding the top of the muu-muu sized undershirt away from her chest, face glossy with oil from the over-productive sebum glands attempting to repair the epidermis disaster.  Attractive.  At times like this, I wonder how I even got a significant other.  Let alone one that will purchase Skittles to make me feel better.

Damn you sun.