stocking up on firearms

It’s that time of year I suppose. If I’m already trashing my knees for no reason and destroying a month of perfectly reasonable jogging by going in that annual end-of-May 10K totally unprepared, then we know that hot on the heels of that particular piece of physical self-destruction is the dreaded but seemingly inevitable First Sunburn. This year I chose to specialize in arms and shoulders, instead of knees, face, and entire back. You have to mix it up a little, it helps inject a some life into the monotony of tradition.

No, it will not “turn into a tan”. It will turn into peeling skin, and maybe, a few years down the road, a V-shaped melanoma the size of my hand.

The freckles on my arms look green because the skin around them is so red.

What was my technique this year? Well, with the UV index screeching off the top of the meter, and the temperature at a soupy 31 degrees, and the humidex rating somewhere in the low 40s, I of course went for a bike ride on Saturday afternoon, and because I was already late for my friend, who was waiting for me, who often has to wait for me, who I didn’t want to make wait anymore, I rushed out the door without sunblock. But I think it’s like my dad said, “It’s 2005 for god’s sake. There’s just no excuse.”

The four-foot-tall Guatamalan guy who runs the parking lot next door to the office asked me this morning how my weekend was. I told him it was fine but I got a sunburn. He asked, “Do you have anyone to rub lotion on it? I will rub lotion on it for you.” I politely declined.