It was a gorgeous day, and a.k. and i had settled into the slightly soggy grasses of hipster beach (aka the intersection of n. 8th and the industrial debris floating in the east river) to read and enjoy our non-office hours and creamsicles with a few friends. One-day vacation, sometimes feels better than a week. So I was smart enough to slather my arms and front side with SPF 45, but skipped my other half, because apparently I think myself two-dimensional, like a Disney princess or Betty/Veronica. Of course, I crisped, medium rare, and I am so pale to begin with that even the mildest rays turn my skin as red as a piglet in the snow. Now I am stuck with this sweltering back burn that is hot to the touch and even melts the pats of lotion I try to put on it—I have a frying pan for lats, two days later. And mama’s gonna blister. Right now I am hoping on aloe vera and billowy materials and icy showers until this heals, and i am left with the gorgeous tan lines of my handprint trying to slap some paba-free back there.
Dammit. I always get thisclose to being functional.