[This post is gonna get graphic. You’ve been warned.]
I have a terrible sunburn.
Let me give you the facts:
- I have porcelain skin. Truly, if this was 1812, I would be a CATCH thanks to my pasty whiteness. The fellas wouldn’t be able to resist. But in 2012, I’m just pale.
- I burn. I do not tan. I burn. Always and forever. [Well. That not 100% true. I went through a very short season in college where I went to the tanning bed and I was brown then. Or, orange. But not white or red- which is the normal.]
On Sunday, a crowd of us went lazily tubing down the Buffalo River. Such a lovely holiday weekend event. I bought a brand new bottle of sunscreen, 30 SPF, and brought it to the river so that I wouldn’t run out and it wouldn’t be ineffective because it was from former summers. I also wore a hat because I didn’t want my moneymaker to burn.
[I mean my face. But that’s a joke. We all know it’s my typing fingers that make the moola around here.]
But I knew.
. . . . .
I knew about fifty-five minutes into the experience that my skin was roasting. The problem with that realization is that I was one hour into a four hour float down the river. No escaping the sun.
It was a great experience with my pals, except for the COMPLETE PANIC IN MY SOUL about the sunburn I was receiving.
And alas, I’m cooked in some special designs and areas.
My chest, my shoulders, and my back are about a 6 on the burn scale- a decent pink shade, with some stripes where I was less than thorough in my application of sunscreen. It’s that three inch line across the center of my back, right where the back of my swimsuit meets the straps, that is fire-engine red, registering at an 8 on the burn scale.
[By the way, you know I’m making up the burn scale, right? It’s not science.]
But in the words of Shakira, it’s my hips that aren’t lying today about the effects of a sunburn.
I apparently totally missed the sides of my legs when applying sunscreen.
It’s no 3rd degree situation, or sun poisoning, but wowsa. We’ve got ourselves a pair of raw ham hocks over here.
. . . . .
I blame Scotland. I think my skin doesn’t know what to think since I spent the summer of 2011 in Edinburgh, covered in long sleeves and long pants. I took my epidermis back to it’s British roots last year and let it remain it’s milky white shade and now, we have a full sun-hating revolt on our hands.
Burn, baby, burn.
Yesterday, I lathered in aloe and took Advil. I shall do the same today.
Lesson learned. If you need me this summer, I’ll be inside. Or fully clothed.
. . . . .
Do you have any magic sunburn relieving tricks? Help a sister out.