That’s Not Bacon You’re Smelling, It’s Me.

 
 

I’m too old to be this dumb..and reckless…and lazy. Wait, scratch that last one. People do get lazier as they age. I’m actually writing this post lying down while the kids fetch me things. Ahhhhh, this is what parenting is all about — “Beck and Call Kids.”

Back to my stupidity. Last Sunday, a hot sunny scorcher, was spent poolside. The kids adequately lubed with sunscreen, were slipping and sliding and splashing while their idiotic mother watched from a lawn chair.

“Do you have sunscreen on?” my pasty husband inquired. “You’re looking a little…pink.”

“No. I don’t need sunscreen. I’m just getting a little colour on my legs.” I explained in an exasperated tone.

Don’t men know anything? The chalky whiteness of my legs magnifies the rampant cellulite. This winter has not been kind. Frying my skin like a rash of bacon was a panicked attempt to camouflage the flabby tone of my hammy gams.

Despite warnings from my husband that I *might* be burning, I continued to sizzle under the dangerous rays of the sun out of pure imbecilic vanity. The joke is on me however. Now I’m sunburned and my legs still look like stocky (red) golf balls.

And to amp the stupidity one more notch, I had smeared 50 sunblock on my face (I do NOT need anymore brown melasma blotches thank you) and on my decolletage. This resulted in a lily white face and neck, set off by a streaks of fire red skin on my shoulders and arms.

I may be an idiot. I may have aged ten years in one day. And I may currently be peeling like a desert snake in July, but at least I don’t look like this poor mahogany mama aka “The Tanning Booth Lady.”

I have learned my lesson and vow to listen to my husband from now on. Well, about sun protection anyway… 

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