Since it’s almost the end of meteorological summer, I think I should talk about something I started doing at the beginning of it.
I’ve never had the best relationship with the sun. Probably because I’m pale and that fiery orb finds it offensive.
My parents and my sister all tan. My mother was a professional tanner in our youth, laying out in the backyard, listening to Cubs games on the radio in the summer and keeping regular tanning bed appointments in the other seasons. My father sported a lop-sided farmer’s tan from driving around on patrol for twelve hours a day with his left arm hanging out the window, the skin that arm getting darker than on the right, dark enough to make my mother jealous. My sister is the kind of person who might get a sunburn and it might last for a day or two, but it would eventually fade into a tan. And once she tanned, well, the chances of her getting another sunburn that summer plummeted.
Me? I go from white to red to white with no other stops on the color wheel. And I didn’t just sunburn as a kid. I burnt. It took no time for me to go from a little pink to deep red to blistered. Growing up, my mom would apply the sunscreen, but it was in the reapplications (infrequent and ill-timed) that I would end up toast. My sunscreen skills didn’t really improve as I got older either. It was a hassle. So, instead of exposing myself to the sun, I gradually retreated from it.
The results were predictable. Sure, I haven’t had a sunburn in years, but I’ve also achieved a paleness not even seen on a sickly Victorian child, which at one point was exacerbated by a bout of anemia. It’s not a pristine, delicate paleness, either. I didn’t get out of those childhood sunburns without a few battle scars. A whole lot of them actually. I’m covered in freckles. It’s the only melanin I have.
Over the years, I’ve attempted to get more sun. However, those attempts were often thwarted by my own laziness and hang-ups. I told myself that I couldn’t go outside on the days I worked because I had to work. I could go outside after work on Saturdays, but I’d sit in the very shaded backyard and not get much sun exposure. I could lay out all day on Friday or Sunday if I wanted to, but it seemed like I could never get out of the house early enough to catch the good sun. It was halfhearted and hopeless.
Then, this past spring, I revamped my morning routine and suddenly everything became possible.
I had noticed that when I took my laptop out in the backyard to write on occasional Saturdays after work or sometimes on my Fridays off, I seemed to be more productive. Why couldn’t I do that every day? I have a perfectly good patio table on a perfectly serviceable patio. I could sit at the table in the mornings, drink my coffee, write, AND get the sun I felt myself craving. Could it be that easy?
Friends, it has been that easy.
Not only do I write more and write it easier when I’m outside soaking up the sun, but I’ve also been getting on better terms with that harsh god. Our relationship has definitely improved with reasonable boundaries. I’m liberal with the sunscreen before going outside, I’m only sitting out there for about 30-45 minutes, and I’m not out there every day. I’m either actively taking a break from the sun or it’s too hot for me to realistically sit outside in direct sunlight in a black chair at a black table. I can only tolerate so much direct exposure and boob sweat.
Spending time outside this summer -as structured yet irregular as it has been thanks to heat waves- has boosted my mood, my creativity, and I’m a healthy shade of pale. In fact, I’m enjoying my mornings of sun, coffee, and writing so much that I don’t plan to give them up so easily come autumn. Or winter, for that matter. I live in the Midwest. Random warm winter days won’t go wasted.
After all, if I’m going to keep this relationship between me and the sun healthy, I’m going to have to work at it.
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