The sun hates me

My friends laugh when I pull out my 70 SPF sunscreen, as they debate between 15 and 30. But they don't know my deep, dark secret.

The sun hates me.

I used to think the sun and I were friendly acquaintances. We'd wave a hello and then each mind our own business. We were never going to be BFF's but we tolerated each other. Now I know.

The sun hates me.

A few weeks ago I went to my favorite beach, Zuma, and peered at the sky inquisitively. With bravado, I exclaimed that there was no way the sun could get to me through that cloud cover. Sunscreen? Ha! I'm invincible! I underestimated my powerful adversary and forgot an inconvenient truth.

The sun hates me.

After recovering from the last beach trip, I fastidiously guarded my skin during a week at the lake. I sat in the shade. I wore hats and jackets. I applied sunscreen every five minutes. When the trip came to an end, I was sunburn-free!

But the sun is a crafty opponent. The day after I got back, I went to the beach again.  I militantly applied sunscreen throughout the day, thinking I had this whole sun protection thing down. I left the beach with the worst sunburn that I've ever experienced on my back. I cannot lean back while I'm driving. I cannot sleep on my back. I cannot wear fitted clothing. At night, I have to wear a tank top covered with aloe vera, put the ceiling fan on high, and hope for the best.

And so, believe when I say with absolute conviction, the SUN. HATES. ME. And right now, I'm not too fond of the sun myself.