Identity Crisis

Around about the time I got home from South Africa, something possessed me: the desire to be tan. Which is entirely out of character. Normally, I'm the girl hiding under a hat, an umbrella, long-sleeve shirts and layers of SPF 45. I'm the girl who proudly returned from a week on the beaches in Costa Rica without so much as a whisper of a hint of color on my hide.

But there I was, every afternoon throughout the entirety of spring, sitting in the sunniest parts of the back yard exposing my chest, stomach and legs. It became a ritual I really looked forward to with my after-work beer and the book of the week. "I must need the vitamin D," I'd hear myself explain to the husband. He'd humor me with a grin, but always took the opportunity to remind me how much he happens to love my usual glow-in-the-dark tones.

Oh, how I fancied my golden-tan on graduation morning as I zipped up the favorite brown, strapless dress. Everything about the dress and accessories were enhanced by the color I'd so diligently worked on for the last couple of months.

A few weeks later, we found ourselves hanging with the family on the beach. What a glorious time we had playing in the water and visiting in the cloudless, perfect bikini-weather summer day. At the time, it seemed an entirely reasonable decision to copy the gaggle of girls with their countless re-applications of spray on coconut oil. I had a solid base, after all.

Wrong again.

My obsession got away from me and came back in the form of a raging virgin-sunburn on my stomach and upper thighs that lasted the better part of a month. Thanks to my coveted lotions and potions, I didn't blister; but a truly impressive peeling phase lasted two whole weeks.

Now, I'm left with this sort of asymmetrical reverse reminder of my bikini when I look in the mirror. For once in my life, the red of a sunburn didn't return my skin to the usual white but has become slightly less white. There's nobody in the world who would examine my belly and call it tan...except for me. Even better, it's only my front half that received punishment. My back half remains the same, pre-South Africa white with a very discernible front/back delineation on my outer calves.

One might argue that I got what I wanted with this Summer 2008 "Tan" o' Mine. Yet, this is not anywhere near what I'd envisioned. This palette resembles more of a poorly designed patchwork quilt of unfamiliar body parts.

Who is this person following me around, wearing my clothes, attached to me below the neck?

At the moment, I don't really know.