I love the sun. I always have. I love it because it loves me. I tan beautifully. When I was growing up I never wore sunblock because I do not burn, I tan . My friends fried, I tanned. I love it. They had to worry about the mighty power of our orbital master and I could easily endure everything the sun threw at me. I would absorb its powerful rays as though they were a soothing, rejuvenating lotion. Occasionally I would get burned but within a few days my skin would transform into a fantastic bronze color. The sun and I were meant for each other.

I can probably count on three hands the number of times I’ve worn sunscreen. My parents never made me wear it because I don’t burn. They would brag to people about my ability to change sunlight into perfect skin tone. Of course I quickly picked up on my greatness and soon I was bragging about my blessed gift from the sun gods. I was a miniature Cary Grant, without the chiseled face and inimitable finesse.

Have you seen what Cary Grant’s face turned into when he got older? He could get away with it because he’s Cary Grant and had the inimitable finesse, no matter what. Me. No such luck.  I am scared. I hate the sun. The sun turns your skin into a hard protective layer of yucky. I am going to be a reptile soon. I do not want to be a lizard face. I am very shallow; I can not have a prematurely aged face. I have been betrayed. There is no revenge. There is no reversal. There is only acceptance. Fuck that. I am going to tint my car windows and invest in a lifetime supply of long sleeve shirts and big floppy straw hats and my new best friend, sunblock.