Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Just one of the many reasons I shouldn't be allowed around a bathing suit.

I hate wearing a bathing suit. I mean really, really hate it. And although part of it IS the whole "Does this make me look fat? OMGILOOKFAT. FATFATFAT. IS THAT CELLULUTE??!?!?" thing, the bulk of it is thw whole white thing. I am white. I mean, obviously, I'm white. When requested by standardized forms, I mark white/Caucasian. 'Cause there's no getting around it. I was born with strawberry blonde hair that darkened to a brown with red highlights which proceeded to fade to a murky non-color which started turning gray when I was 23. I tried a myriad of colors when I started coloring it to cover the gray, only to find that most of the time, my hair's tendency to highlight red would not be thwarted. Pretty much every blonde or brown that I attempted would end up looking reddish. So a couple of years ago, I just told Katye, my hairdresser to make it red. So red I am. And also white. Like a piece of paper white. The whitest. I am so white that the undertones of my skin are actually BLUE.

And hence, my hatred for bathing suits. Now, I can get the barest hint of a tan. But it takes the kind of work that I'm not really interested in doing. I'm talking scrupulously timed outings in the sun with carefully applied decreasing SPF factors. And I'm still...more of an ecru than anything. I've also delved into the exciting world of standing naked while a lady named Carmen sprays me with some organic mixture out of an airbrush gun. Which makes me tan. But is also expensive and makes me feel slightly like a tee shirt from Panama City Beach.

So now my approach to being white is this: Apply copious amounts of sunscreen. Wear big, floppy hat. Sit under the umbrella if possible. This is especially important in August when the Bs and I travel en masse to Mantoloking, which is a small enclave of EXTREME preppiness tucked between the intensely Jersey Shore towns of Seaside Heights (yes, as in Jersey Shore Jersey Shore) and Point Pleasant Beach. I'll get to Bayhead/Mantoloking at a later time, but suffice to say it's the beach. I am sitting on the bed in my room and I can see sand. This means that I spend part of most days in the sun.

Bringing me to yesterday and the point of all this...It rained all day on Sunday. It rained yesterday until mid-afternoon when suddenly it stopped and was absolutely gorgeous--blue skies, sun, light breeze, warm. Which meant that Brendan and E and I jumped into our suits and headed to the beach. I grabbed one of my favorites. it's big black and white checks. Two piece. The bottom is a ruffly skirt. The top is long so that there's just a sliver of skin showing. It's awesome What it also has, which I failed to consider when applying my Coppertone SPF 50 waterproof spray, is a keyhole opening in the back.

So this morning, I'm reading. And wondering why on earth the bra which I've worn a hundred times is driving me bonkers. I mean, it feels like there's a big tag rubbing my middle back. I reach under my shirt. I remove it. No tag. I lift up my shirt and look in the mirror. And I now see a perfect half-circle of pink on my back. Very attractive, right?

The moral of the story is this: Sometimes, I do excessively dumb things And also, when those warnings say "Always wear sunscreen", they mean on all you. Including the keyhole opening in the back of your swimsuit

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