Imported from MySpace blog
I have accepted my fate: I am a sun worshiper.
I go against all that is holy and languish, unprotected, beneath the sun’s miasmic rays. My fair skin makes it all the more exciting. I taunt death with every second I stay sprawled on the lawn, with every inch of ladylike pale skin I leave exposed to the yawning blue sky.
Each year, I eagerly await the onset of warm weather. Long before it has set in, I begin practicing absorbing the sun’s rays by dangling first hands, then arms and even legs out of car windows, palms and toes face up to absorb a maximum in vitamin D.
Last Sunday, heathen that I am, I was lounging on the lawn with a weighty tome, a flimsy dress and a pair of movie-star sunglasses, and an old woman toddled up to tell me to watch out. For what? I wondered. For the wrath of the sun god, I presume. Or the churchgoers across the street, offended by my practice that so obviously flies in the face of their turtleneck-wearing congregation. They might, in their enthusiastic evangelism, trample an innocent child dressed in its Sunday best. I could be charged with manslaughter.
In a small concession to modern science and that annoying, plagiarized song for high school graduates, I have invested in a tube of sunscreen. Goodbye, comforting sunburn pain. Goodbye, sun-kissed cheeks and sheets of peeling skin. If only I hadn’t been born so piteously pale, I might be able to walk free under the sun’s scorching rays, perhaps padding barefoot through a desert. Such is not the life for sophisticated desk-jobbers such as I. I am doomed to live indoors, subject to the whims of the kind of people that aspire to claw their way to middle management.
But, on Sundays, I can still piss off a whole churchload of prim old ladies and their slobbering old husbands. Thank god for simple pleasures.