Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 30, 2019

There’s a certain sting to sunburn that cannot be salved with aloe vera.

No matter what you slather on your neon-pink skin – cold tomato slices, refrigerated tea bags, the tears of your nemesis dispensed from a vial of polished amber – nothing takes away the pain of knowing you’re the only one to blame.

You begin cursing yourself in an internal Shakespearean monologue, condemning your own foolishness. I, a woman who has inhabited this earth for nearly three decades clothed in pale Irish skin, allowed myself to be cooked like a steakette on Dad’s barbecue. I know the power of the sun. I know the vulnerability of humanity. I am the slatherer of sunscreen and I am the wearer of long-sleeved, collared shirts.

And yet, here I sit of a Monday night, glowing with red like I was born with the same skin condition that afflicted Rudolf. Strap me to the front of a sleigh and I’d be able to guide it through the thickest of polar fogs.

My shoulders are erratically pulsating warmth like a cheap, dodgy heater you wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving on while you left the room to make a cup of tea. My arms feel as if they are dotted with permanent goose bumps. And my upper thigh skin is so angry it looks like I’ve been stung by multiple bees.  It makes the prospect of wearing pants impossible and even the passive act of sitting feel like an act of self-flagellation.

I’m currently in bed, curled up with a mug of chicken chippies*, reflecting on how the heck I let myself get like this.

* More specifically, a mug the shape of a Persian cat’s face. It was my second cup of chicken chippie tea that day, if that gives you any indication as to where I was at that point of my life.

I heartily recommend consuming chicken chippies out of mugs. First off, the long, cylindrical nature of the mug keeps the chicken chippies warmer for longer than they’d be if they were unceremoniously dumped on a plate where the cool, cruel air can get to them. It makes it easier to curl up with a mug bed this way. Secondly, there’s the handle aspect. You can be a gal on the go, nugg mug in one hand, smartphone in the other ready to share your ideas with the world through the democratising, disruptive power of social media. Of course, your smartphone hand will be Instagramming your nugg mug, so the world will know how adorably irreverent you are. Fuck conventional plates, you’re not going to conform to the norms laid out in front of you. You’re a disruptor. You’re authentic. You’re just a girl who loves chicken nuggets trying to fill a whistling void in your soul with validation on social media for being an empowered mess of a human being. 

It was a combination of things, really.

It was me forgetting to bring shorts on an overnight trip, opting to get about pantless. It was me running late, deciding to put on sunscreen when I was already at the beach instead of doing so beforehand. And I suspect it had a little something to do with my decision* to fall asleep** in the sun at about 2pm.

* It wasn’t an active decision

** Pass out

I could blame the person who brought the five-layer Mexican dip for distracting me with food when I should have been reapplying sunscreen. I could blame my long-sleeved shirt for lying in a crumpled heap on the sand instead of shielding me from the sun. I could blame my friends, for failing to properly supervise a 27-year-old spontaneous outdoor napper.

But I only have myself to blame. The fault lies with me.

And I know that I should be doing things to at least attempt to make amends with my singed self.

I’m acting as if doing nothing will undo all the damage, but I know I should have spent the day marinating myself in aloe vera instead of laying in my bed watching Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin live out the retirement of my dreams on Netflix (well, actually, my retirement plan is for me and my best friend to wait until our husbands die – of totally unsuspicious, natural causes, of course – before taking ownership the olive grove house, where we live out our days drinking margaritas, blasting Fleetwood Mac and hosting bonfire parties, however, I’d happily settle for the Grace and Frankie scenario).

And, hey, the passive treatment has already worked for me in some way – I got burnt on Sunday afternoon and much of the redness had dulled by Monday morning. So I am hoping that another good night’s sleep will be enough to combat the power of the Sun and completely liberate me from its wrath. I mean, sure, it’s the burning orb of energy around which our planetary system revolves, but you should never underestimate the power of a decent rest.

But by doing nothing, I’m hoping that I’m taking serious preventative action. I’m hoping this discomfort lingers in my mind, so next time I go out in the sun, I’m reminded to wear a hat. I hope I recall how difficult it currently is to wear undies when I next toy with the idea of going to the beach without a sun shirt.  And I hope the flecks of dead skin that will inevitably flake off in my sheets and stick to office furniture will traumatise me* into coating my body in sunscreen.

* It’s working. Yesterday I took off a dark green, long-sleeved dress after work, turning it inside out. I saw all these flecks of skin peel stuck to the inside, leaving the surface looking like a dark green lammington (my skin being the desiccated coconut in this simile).

I sincerely hope it works. Because if I want to outlive my husband and go on to have at least 10 good margarita-drinking years in the olive grove, I’m going to avoid skin cancer as much as possible.