Very, very not tan

The summer I met Bill, I had been spending a lot of time outdoors and I was proud that my skin had turned from its normal translucent quality to what I considered tan. (This was, obviously, years before I became the skin cancer Nazi. But even then I kept sunscreen on my face all the time.)

Years later Bill admitted to me that even though I had talked about being tan that I was indeed not tan ... and was actually still "very, very white." Yeah, he called me very, very white, but in the most loving way, of course.

But I've come to terms with my pastiness and accept that I am intended to be pale. Now, I see a tan person and I shake my head in pity knowing that while they might look aiight now, that tan is going to come back and bite them in their leathery ass at some point ... maybe.

Accepting that I am ultra-white girl doesn't mean that I like the way the glare off my jumbo, gelantious thighs blinds small children at the pool. So it was with great delight that I learned that I am not the only one suffering this affliction.

Click over here. Make sure you scroll down to the conversation between Weet and her husband about her white pants — Brilliant, like most everything she writes.