PTSD

Burn, baby, burn

Oh. My. God.

Is my skin supposed to be glowing? Am I going to be able to find
concealer in "Neon Fuschia?" Does our health insurance cover "death by
stupidity?"

Despite four (liberal) applications of SPF 45, sitting under an
umbrella all day, only venturing into the sun for an hour and during
the 35 minutes I spent in the water (in two doses, after 2:30pm, and
with an application of sunblock in between) I find myself wishing I'd
taken my own advice about avoiding the beach at all costs.

If there's one summer occupation that I know how to do well, it's
applying enough sunscreen to make the slip-n-slide a very dangerous
toy. And yet, I resemble nothing so much as a well-broiled lobster.
Maybe a steamed blue crab, but I'm really a bit afraid to look and find
out which one is closer to the right color.

I can't actually move. I tried, it didn't go well. People I don't
know walked up to me and said, "Ouch."

Somewhere in Delaware, there's a seafood restaurant bathroom that has a
fine coating of my spray-on aloe gel. Well, not so much fine as a
quarter inch thick and quite possibly a tort claim waiting to happen.
At least the brief high that I got from the fumes helped me to ignore
the feeling of being rolled in 60 grain sandpaper and then set on fire.

Somebody call me in September. Then, and only then, will I THINK about
going back outside. If it's raining. And after sunset. And cold out,
so that I can wear a coat. And a hat. And gloves.

posted by Elizabeth @ 11:47 PM