Earlier this summer I wrote about a visit to the beach, and noted how pale my skin is. Put it this way, if I took my shirt off and stood next to the Pillsbury Dough Boy, people would assume that we were identical twins — except that Poppin’ Fresh has been working out more than me.
Here are some facts: I’ve never had a tan in my life; I’ve had skin cancers removed on three different occasions; and depending on how much time I spend in the sun, my skin color can match all 40 shades on the Sherwin-Williams red paint chart.
Recently, I was contemplating all the dumb things I’ve done in my life. And by the way, I’m not going to share the complete list with you — at least not until I double-check the statute of limitations in various northeastern states. I will, however, relate one item that made the list: when I was a young man, I tried really hard to get a tan. Considering the gene pool from which I descended, that made about as much sense as Danny DeVito deciding that his goal in life is to be able to dunk a basketball.
Here’s a section of a newspaper column I wrote 22 years ago:
“When I was a kid, my father worked as the head lifeguard at the Clinton Town Beach. My siblings and I were at the beach every day from 9 a.m. until 5 p.m. Additionally, our ancestors hail from County Albino, that region of Ireland which is perpetually shrouded in fog and has not seen sunshine since a freak weather condition in the 4th century caused the sun to appear for almost 20 minutes. Each year our flesh would turn bright pink in June, then change to ruby red in July, and finally settle on a festive shade of fluorescent maroon by August. We never got tan. All summer long our skin would blister and peel, and similar to snakes, we would periodically shed our skins, leaving behind crusty one-piece outlines of ourselves. When beach-goers saw one of those skin carcasses blowing across the sand, they’d comment, ‘Looks like one of the Dunn youngins shed again.’”
Here’s a section of a newspaper column I wrote 22 years ago:
“When I was a kid, my father worked as the head lifeguard at the Clinton Town Beach. My siblings and I were at the beach every day from 9 a.m. until 5 p.m. Additionally, our ancestors hail from County Albino, that region of Ireland which is perpetually shrouded in fog and has not seen sunshine since a freak weather condition in the 4th century caused the sun to appear for almost 20 minutes. Each year our flesh would turn bright pink in June, then change to ruby red in July, and finally settle on a festive shade of fluorescent maroon by August. We never got tan. All summer long our skin would blister and peel, and similar to snakes, we would periodically shed our skins, leaving behind crusty one-piece outlines of ourselves. When beach-goers saw one of those skin carcasses blowing across the sand, they’d comment, ‘Looks like one of the Dunn youngins shed again.’”
So, that’s what I experienced during my youth. And now, over a half-century later, that’s why I have my dermatologist on speed dial. The dumb thing I had to add to my list occurred soon after I graduated from college. I got a job as a production supervisor in a factory, and I was assigned to the second shift. I decided it was the perfect opportunity to get a good tan.
Each day I drove over to Hammonasset State Park and laid out on the beach for hours at a time. Not surprisingly, I did the bright pink to ruby red to fluorescent maroon transformation. Here’s the most ridiculous aspect of this adventure: at the time, I was genuinely convinced that I looked just like a California lifeguard you might see in a Frankie Avalon beach movie. What I actually looked like was a guy who accidentally stepped in front of a worker who was spray-painting the big concrete spheres in front of a Target store.
Each day I drove over to Hammonasset State Park and laid out on the beach for hours at a time. Not surprisingly, I did the bright pink to ruby red to fluorescent maroon transformation. Here’s the most ridiculous aspect of this adventure: at the time, I was genuinely convinced that I looked just like a California lifeguard you might see in a Frankie Avalon beach movie. What I actually looked like was a guy who accidentally stepped in front of a worker who was spray-painting the big concrete spheres in front of a Target store.
As a little warning to everyone who thinks laying out in the sun is fine, here’s another segment from that old column, describing what happened when I was sent to a specialist to have a melanoma excised:
“It turns out the official medical dictionary definition of the word excise is, and I quote, ‘Carve a Chicken McNugget-sized chunk of flesh out of the middle of Bill’s back and then close it up with a bunch of Frankenstein stitches.’”
Let’s hear it for pale guys in the shade!
“It turns out the official medical dictionary definition of the word excise is, and I quote, ‘Carve a Chicken McNugget-sized chunk of flesh out of the middle of Bill’s back and then close it up with a bunch of Frankenstein stitches.’”
Let’s hear it for pale guys in the shade!
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