This is the time of year when Nature rewards us for having braved the attacks of winter and the false promises of a fickle spring, when flowers and vegetables grace our gardens, fish start jumping and the birds fly back home. This is the time of year when my skin falls off.
It’s unavoidable. I use such large quantities of lotion at the beach that I risk sliding into the ocean and being unable to be rescued by lifeguards who might find me too slippery to retrieve.
But none of the lotions have succeeded in protecting my epidermis. Even the newest brands that promise to deliver instant tans, only produce partial results making me resemble a spotted Appaloosa horse.
The most expensive lotion on the market is successful in that it gives me deep golden brown blisters. The last time I drove home from the shore ( And I really mean “the last time”) I had to drive almost standing up, a tricky maneuver in an English Ford.
Once home, I recuperate best in a position where the least square footage of outside me is touching anything. ( It’s usually a far corner of the living room where my body heat will not challenge the air conditioner as my broiled epidermis flakes off. ) It isn’t the natural easy sloughing off of the outer layer that the snakes experience. It’s a painful process of peeling and, believe it or not, there are actually so-called friends and relatives who enjoy helping sunburn victims through this stage of desquamation.
“I know I’m peeling,” I tell them. “but I don’t think you’re supposed to force it like that.” But they persist. “Dad, you can’t walk around town while you’re falling apart like this,” they say. “Just let us take one of these last big pieces off….Oh, Oh! Remember that big anchor tattoo that Mom doesn’t like? “
“What happened to it? Is it damaged?”
“No, Dad. It’s intact and unharmed. Here, I’ll hand it to you. Maybe you can have it framed.”
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