Yesterday I was the first in our house to wake up and I headed to the kitchen to do the usual: make coffee, check e-mail and read a few blogs
and be super productive. As I sat my butt down in a barstool in front of my laptop it dawned on me that we are headed to the beach very soon and maybe I should shake things up a bit, namely my untoned booty. I put my running shoes on and went for a walk.
It was peacefully quiet out and not yet humid, which was very pleasant. As I rounded the first corner I saw a neighbor on his front porch engaged in some sort of brick demolition project with another guy. Considering I had not showered, had no makeup on, and realized just then that the paper thin aqua running shorts I had put on over coral underwear was not the best choice, I kept on chugging without giving the obligatory neighborly smile and wave. Besides, they were too busy to notice the woman with freakishly white legs speed walking down the street.
I glanced down at my arm and was thinking something profound like, “Damn I am WHITE!” and noticed a small brown spot on my middle right finger. And then it dawned on me that it was not a freckle.
I tease my husband about his graying around the temples since he’s a year and a half younger than me and I have managed to avoid the gray hair fairy at 37, but I’ve paid my dues in spider veins. I refuse, however, to acknowledge that my freckles are morphing into age spots. Then again, wouldn’t a “I Hit the Tanning Bed One Too Many Time in the 80s” bumper sticker be fitting, considering my 20-year high school reunion is coming up?