|Summer wardrobe, |
Denali National Park style
Mom assured me that my "fair" skin was an asset. (We all knew that "fair" was just code for "whoa girl, let me put some shades on to cut the glare from your legs!") She tried to comfort me with the thought that in 30 years my friends would have leathery wrinkled hides from all that sun worship while I would be dewy and youthful. Somehow the thought of my peers shriveled like prunes didn't help a lot when they were singing "Blinded By the Light" at the top of their lungs from the boat while I water-skied. I just smiled and waved my pasty white arm. Every summer my futile quest for some color continued. What was I thinking? That I would suddenly develop late-onset pigment and look like a Coppertone ad?
No more. A tan? Meh. Who needs it? In fact, these days I slather 70 SPF sunscreen on my cracker-white extremities or just suit up like a beekeeper when I go outside. My legs continue to blind innocent bystanders but I can roll with it. The best thing about middle-age is that it doesn't bother me anymore. A faux-freckle-tan will do just fine.