My neighbors giggled down at me, leaning over their porch rail: “Can we lay out on your lounge chairs?”
Of course, I replied. No one else is using them, anyway. Consider them yours. After they were settled, and soaking up the rays, I couldn’t help but mention, even though I knew it would do no good, a little something about the dangers of the sun.
The girls managed to put serious faces on for a minute or two, echoing their agreement (“Oh we know it’s bad”) until they lapsed back into the lawn chairs, oiled up and ready for several hours of skin-crackling fun in the sun.
But I remember what it felt like to lay out in the sun.
Trundling after my older sister for an afternoon of sunbathing, we brought only the basics: an old quilt, a book designed for summer reading (not too “thinky;” just lots of sex and dysfunction), suntan oil and of course, lukewarm Tab sodas. Laying out was one of the ways I could show off my newfound maturity as a fifth-grader.
The blinding sun, the rolling green grass that went on forever and the memories of that time rest warmly on my heart.
And being a sun-worshipper stuck. It stuck with me for all the years I lived in Oregon as a kid, when the sun only dared to show its face in the summer months. It became a necessity when I moved to the Midwest and sunny days started in early spring. Eventually, my tanorexia became something that needed maintenance all year ‘round.
I know that I’m lucky, to have some good Norwegian genes that have so far kept most of the sun damage at bay. We also have some weird gene in our family that allows us to tan really quickly- a half-hour in the sun, and we look like we’ve been in South Carolina all week. And without making excuses, I have to say that we didn’t know as much then as we know now about sun-related health risks. Including, but not limited to, immunosupression, skin cancer and cataracts. Whew.
And I have to laugh at my dear friend Ann in Wisconsin, who like my neighbors, bundles up in 60 degree weather and sits outside in the sun to “get some color.” Living in Oregon again, with my web feet firmly planted on the ground, I’m even less inclined to work on my tan this summer. No, I won’t oil up, lay out or use the clock to decide when it’s time to turn over (yes, we really used to do that).
Instead, I’ll languish in my natural, semi-matte color. And fondly remember the dark days.
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