skin sin
Tuesday early, and we've already had a morning. When I went outside at four o'clock the day was dark and cloudy but clear, warm and humid. An hour later, lightning, thunder and driving rain. Ten minutes later, clear again but light as the Sun makes its promises.
Sitting here contemplating and tippy-typing something to say next Sunday morning, I've not even had my second mug of hot 'n black. Much less have I started getting ready for my six-monthly eight o'clock visit to the skin doctor, stripped to the waist to lie and then sit while he zaps here and there as he mutters to the nurse. What I always hope to avoid is when he gets out the needle, scares and hurts me, waits a moment, then I sense a cutting sensation and smell burning flesh.
From the consequences of a boy's years blistering in the sun at the beach,
Good Lord, deliver us.
What? smearing Noxzema all over me, blistering burning red anyway, Mama dabbing cool tea all over me to sooth my searing stinging skin.
And now the consequences.
This much I've learned: when I'm nine, and thirteen, and seventeen, and even twenty, what will happen to me when I'm eighty-something because of what I do today is of absolutely no interest whatsoever. Eighty-something is something my grandfather is, it has nothing to do with me.
He lives to learn. Stay out of the sun. Wear long sleeves and don't wear short pants. Wear a cap.
zap zap zap
It's a beautiful day anyway.
RSF&PTL
T