Quit While You're Ahead

Note: The editors of YAB insisted on declaring independence from Blogger over the holiday weekend. The writer of YAB disagreed on such a decision, insisting that the people of America need blog on our nation’s birthday. Then the editors called the writer a Redcoat and took his lunch money. We make up for their transgressions…today.

I didn’t even know that was possible.

Part of going down to North Carolina to celebrate the 4th of July was the hope that the weather would be nicer than the torrential-downpour that has been life in Northern Virginia for the past two weeks. Sure, I was hoping for beautiful sunny days once I got down to the Tar Heel State, but I would have taken any weather pattern other than “driving rain.” It could have been dropping marshmallows from the sky and I would be happy.

Note: I know that sounds fun, but even marshmallows have to reach terminal velocity at some point. If this happens to you, get thee inside.

With a Stay-Puft Saturday absent, we did in fact get beautiful weather at the Casa du Nord this past weekend. The temp ranged in the 80’s, and the sun stayed out all day long (yeah, it was out at night, too, but that pesky “rotation of the Earth” prevented any apocalyptic scenarios) Now we live in 2006, and with all the medical information surrounding the effects of direct sunlight (Baywatch, among other things, taught us that skin cancer can kill). I’m no dummy. I’ll hide behind the greasy veil of Coppertone.

Now with my ethnic roots hailing largely from the Emerald Isle, my skin tone presents a bit of a solar challenge. Fortunately, I have enough Italian blood in me to keep me off of the “Instant Lobster” list. I tan, even if it is a gradual process and requires me to put the “burnt” in “burnt sienna.” But the only way to go about this is to head out into the heat with something in the SPF: 15-30 range.

Note: Only sunscreen has SPF, most condiments will not work in an emergency situation.

The application of sunscreen should not be harder than any application you had to fill it during that last winter in high school, when mom and dad wouldn’t let you go outside and play hockey until all your essays were done. (“But they need me to play! They neeeeeed me.”) For most of one’s being, putting on sunscreen can be achieved with a hand, a bottle, and a mirror. However, there’s that pesky area at the central point of your back that no matter how much you try, you’re not preventing it by yourself from becoming burn central. (You’re killing me, Small.) This is one of the few times it’s okay to ask another guy to help you with the sunscreen – as long as you both stare at the ground and discuss things like “Hey, only 42 more days until NFL Training Camp” and “If you were part of an army squadron, what part would you be?”

But no amount of sunscreen or man-talk can prevent the one final danger of the sun. In all the water-skiing, jet-skiing, and Tchaikovsky-ing I endured this past weekend, not once did I think it could happen to me. I have to admit, I just didn’t see it coming. I was so concerned about my arms and legs ordering a Code Red that I didn’t even think that…

…I could burn my head.

Do NOT try and brush your hair with a sunburned scalp. People will understand.