Shade Worshiper

When I was 16, I was absolutely convinced that the secret to Teenage Bliss was long fingernails and a tan. If I just had those two things, I would lose my adolescent awkwardness and be awarded a boyfriend. I was certain of it.

And so the summer between my sophomore and junior years, I set to work. I drank an orange-flavored Jell-O-like drink every day (it was Knox Gelatin) in pursuit of the lovely long fingernails portrayed on the front of the box. I also had a daily appointment in a yellow lounge chair on the small deck in back of my parents’ condo. I baked out there from noon to at least 3:00pm every day (depending on my work schedule slinging pizzas at night), with SPF 4 to be, you know, responsible.

By the end of that summer, I had fabulously long fingernails that I painted in pinks and corals to showcase my even more fabulous tan. I also had an impressive collection of newspaper clippings handed to me from numerous sources of an Ann Landers column about a woman who was dying at a young age from skin cancer because she worshiped the sun a bit too religiously. Melanoma, shmelanoma. I had long fingernails, a tan, and a boyfriend! Whoo hoo!! My confidence blossomed and my awkwardness started to shy away. Even my biology teacher noticed it when school started up again. “You really grew up over the summer!” I remember him saying. Fingernails + a tan = I loved being right!

My pursuit of brownish skin continued through college. It helped that I went to school in a beach town. I still have text books with sand in the binding. I always eagerly awaited that one week of freakishly nice weather every February so I could get a nice base layer started for the summer. Occasionally I would go without any sunscreen so I could get a nice starter burn. Oy.

Somewhere in my late 20s, though, my determination to have that California Tan shifted. It probably had a lot to do with having found the Ultimate Boyfriend and also having, you know, a job. I would try to get tan on vacations and occasionally succumbed to faux-tans-in-a-bottle, but otherwise I mostly accepted my more naturally fair skin and stocked up on suntan-colored pantyhose.

Now having lived in the Pacific Northwest for over ten years and being closer to 50 than any other round number, my perspective on coloring my skin has changed once again. I now actively try to avoid it.

There are now hope-its-not-too-late thoughts of melanoma and age spots and pre-mature wrinkles. There are too many memories of the painful stickiness of a hot burn slathered in aloe. In my middle-age wisdom, my SPF is now 30 and I wear hats and sunglasses. And helpfully, my pale legs hardly stand out in the Pacific Northwest where legs are either ghostly or tanning-bed-orange.

They do, however, stand out in Hawaii. We spent a week in Kauai recently and boy, did I feel like a Washingtonian! Compared to most everyone else, you could use my legs as beacons on a night walk. Truly, who needs reflective gear when you have Washington Winter White lighting the way?

Finally being comfortable with my alabaster skin, I really thought I would be spending all of my vacation time in the deliciously warm shade. Indeed, Rob discovered a fantastic beach we now call Roboni Beach. It was hugely unpopular because of all of the delightful trees blocking the sun. We spent about 4 hours there one day, basking in the shade, until I got cold and dragged my beach chair around in the shifting sun, leaving a track much like a sea turtle. But thanks to my dedicated SPFing, the only color I had to show for it were slightly burned feet. Apparently burying your feet in the sand doesn’t serve as sun protection??

Roboni Beach.  Note the tantalizing shade.

We went snorkeling a number of times but the only lasting marks were the alluring suction lines on my face from the mask. As a side note, wow, nobody told me your skin doesn’t bounce back nearly as fast from stuff like that as you get older. Between snorkel masks and pillow case creases, who needs the sun for the appearance of pre-mature wrinkles? Fantastic!

And I did spend a day hanging out under a tree at the pool. Nothing to show for that either, other than bragging rights for having finished a not-so-riveting autobiography about Potsie from "Happy Days." As another side note, Bette Davis was a pain in the tush. Gavin McLeod concurs. (Yes, HEAVY reading took place on this vacation.)

I did, however, manage to add some redness to my neck, chest, and arms at the end of our trip. I think it happened while I was relaxing on the beach while Rob did some solo snorkeling. Although it was morning and wasn’t for more than 15 or 20 minutes, I think my SPF was with the fishes and it was just enough time for my skin to freak out at the once-familiar but long-forgotten feeling of being exposed to the sun unadorned.

And you know what? That 16 year old girl in me gave a little cheer when I discovered my last souvenir. A tiny part of me was oddly excited that I have some lingering proof that I actually did spend a week in a warm, sunny paradise. Not sure why I needed proof, though. The abundant photos and the stamps on the ice cream stand’s frequent shopper card are more than sufficient. Even more so, the already slower, more Zen approach to life, activity, and decisions. Hopefully though, unlike my tan, those won’t soon fade.

18 and sad to be leaving a Hawaiian airport after spending a week chasing the sun.

47 and sad to be leaving a Hawaiian airport after spending a week chasing the shade.