Beach baby

Upon arriving home from my keys vacation, the inevitable has begun. I must be constantly prepared to defend, my horrible crime against nature and self, the heinous act of, gasp! being tan. Walking the beach and enjoying the pool have that effect on me. Anyone who has known me for at least 5 minutes, is well aware of my affinity for the sun. I know. I have read every horror story and the threats are very real. I do see a dermatologist for an allover body check and a stern lecture yearly. However, a part of me contends that our skin was designed to accept some natural sun rays. Hell, if we hadn't "evolved", we'd still be naked! And tan! Some of my earliest memories are of the beach. My Mom had us three by the time she was 24 and being a beach bunny herself, initiated us all at a very young age. She was one of the original sun goddesses. Back in the day before sunscreen, we practically grew up on the white sand and clear blue waters of Ossineke Beach. I would hold my brothers hand while carrying a pail of sand toys in the other. Mom would have baby Lisa on her hip and a cooler in her other hand. The four of us would trudge through the warm sand and set up camp on the shoreline. There were plenty of other young moms and kids to welcome us to the party. We would play Marco Polo in the shallow, warm water and build sandcastles along the beach, making all the beach walkers go around, until the inevitable bully would stamp on our creation. There would be chips and koolaid . Somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, we kids would start to turn just the most delicate pink in color. At this point my Mom, who was always a nice chocolate brown shade, would pull our fathers white t-shirts over our heads. This offered some protection of the torso, but basically left our arms and faces exposed to fry to a nasty red burn. So, by five o'clock we were packed up, all sandy, burnt and irritable to get home in time to have dinner ready by 5:30. We would be hosed off by the freezing cold garden hose to try to remove the sand that had already turned into cement. Felt like sandpaper on the tender burned areas. Then it was into the house for a liberal coating of Noxzema, that gave us relief for all of about 2 minutes. Sometimes lying on a towel in front of the box fan was necessary. Not long after dinner, being to sore and stiff to do anything else, we would hit the hay early. The next morning Mom would push her finger into the skin on our arms and if the spot didn't appear too white for too long, we would pack up and do it all over again. Eventually we either got tan, or like Lisa, just peeled and started the process over. As we browned up, people were always quick to comment on how "healthy" we all looked. Melanomas and basal cells were not even a faraway thought. As a teen, on that same beach, a new generation of sun goddesses did the whole baby oil and iodine thing and roasted ourselves to the perfect color with the same "healthy" comments comin' our ways--usually by boys on the next blanket over. Our tans were our summer competitions and goals. So now as an adult I know better, but just can't quite completely let it go. It doesn't help that we vacation at tropical climes. Even where the locals give a stunningly accurate picture of how we will look if we keep up the sun worship,(ghastly!) it's hard to resist the pull. At least now I have the sense to use the sunscreen that wasn't even invented when I was a child. Sigh. All good things have to come to an end. Like disco, big hair and trans fat, a "healthy" tan is a thing of the past. Drat. oxox