June 07, 2007

Beachy Keen

Saturday was one of those “let’s get coffee and do absolutely nothing on purpose” days. The best kind of days. And since five Great Lakes do not an ocean make, Norah was kind enough to spend the day at the beach lying on the sand, chatting intermittently, a lazy iPod mix harmonizing with the sound of the surf. [GO TO: “Jealousy, ha ha ha”, 8, 1 RUN]

This picture would be better if my arms were longer (and, if we’re honest, my nose were shorter), but I enjoy documenting my love of public transportation. Ann Arbor could use a subway; the buses are great, but… I really like the T. Yes, I said it: I’ve been on at least four different underground rails, and the T makes it all the way to runner-up on the Could Suck Way Worse scale (the London Tube still beats it, mostly by virtue of being in London). So, more blue line to Revere Beach for some deliberate lethargy, letting the sun sting our eyes like Spanish lullabies.

And then, the relaxation.

Of course, the relaxation did not start on schedule because I has to run to a nearby ‘depahtment stoah’ (yes, it’s still funny) to buy a bikini. Yes, the kind that has a top and a bottom and a fleshy expanse of skin between them. And maybe I shouldn’t be wearing one, flabby midsection and all, but dammit it was a beach and everyone else was wearing one and no, a tankini is not the same because it's about empowerment. A discount two-piece later and I am the sun’s humble bacon.

Back when my legs were still white as folk music. And yes, I do often swing from trees with those toes, thank you for asking.

Norah’s bathing suit is by Victoria’s Secret; who apparently will not rest until they get all my money.

Now, I would be remiss if I did not insert a PSA here to wear sunscreen at the beach, or picnic, or any outdoor activity lasting longer than five minutes. It’s a simple thing, takes two minutes: get it over all exposed skin (I have seen basal cells on earlobes, it ain’t pretty), make sure it’s waterproof, has an SPF of at least 30, and reapply often. Wash your skin and moisturize it thoroughly when you get home, and spot check for the ABCDs of melanoma regularly. This is coming from an excessively paranoid / moley girl; there’s no reason to die early if you don’t have to. End PSA.

Yes, that bottle says SPF 15. That’s why I got my epidermis flayed off.

Sadly, I did not notice the severity of the burn until after lunch (and honestly, my legs could have been eaten by seagulls and I wouldn’t have looked up until that crab roll was gone). My legs felt dry on the way back, got hot on the emergency aloe-run, and on fire—literally, burned-at-the-stake flames—for the rest of the night. I sat feet-up on the couch, smeared with aloe, trying to convince my body not to pee for the next three days because I could no longer stand under my own power.

This could potentially have been really embarrassing, had my hosts not been the sweetest and most hospitable people ever born. They checked every five minutes to see if there was anything I needed; offered to draw me a bath to soak the prize-winning eggplants that had sprouted from my kneecaps, medicated me, brought me food and scored me an 8-ball, a sedan chair and four sturdy, burly sherpas.

One of those didn’t happen (hi, Mom). But they did truly go out of their way for me, even before I was incapacitated; they’re great people and I miss them already. Also, they’re adorable.

I’m pinching pixellated cheeks over here.

And, as promised: Brandy Alexander.

Like alcoholic chocolate milk—the perfect tonic for searing leg pain.

Tomorrow: More stuff that will probably get me yelled at.


Anonymous said...

I don't think she knows what an 8-ball is, anyway. Where are the "after" pictures of your puffy scorched cankles?


Anonymous said...

HA! I just looked up "sherpa"....

Sarah Beedoo said...

I did not take cankle shots; they would've ended up in my medical file. And how do you know what an 8-ball is?!

Ian said...

SPF 15? Whyyyyyy?