In Search of The Perfect Tan

Back in the days when dinosaurs roamed, and I was a kid, there was no such thing as sunscreen. Our mothers would slather us up with baby oil containing a healthy measure of Mercurochrome, and we would head off to the beach.  After an hour , we would be cautioned to sit under the umbrella, or put on the rash guard of the times; a white cotton undershirt. Needless to say the first night, our little rented bungalow reeked of Noxzema, and was filled with the whimpering of children in pain.  Laying on hot sandy sheets, with a ferocious case of the chills, a great start to summer.

Still the lesson wasn't learned. As a teenager my friends and I would wrap our bi-fold album covers in aluminum foil, and make sun reflectors for our faces. When the "Who" introduced  the album "Tommy", we eagerly moved up to the tri-fold reflector arena.  As soon as we were able to lay out at the beach without being frostbitten, our sun worship would continue. We worked on our tans religiously, flipping every half hour for even coverage, and continual basting with baby oil.  We even toyed with the idea of using motor oil, as one girl had read this was a popular option with southern gals. Now I don't know if this was a myth perpetrated by NASCAR, or the good people of Pennzoil, but we decided to stay with our Johnsons & Johnsons, and leave that other oil in the car. Our motto was "Burn, Peel, and Repeat."

Then  there was the advent of the "self tanning" lotions.  They sounded great on paper, but unless you wanted to look like an Umpa Loompa, and have your palms stay an unnatural color for two weeks, they did not deliver the even golden tan we hankered for. We stuck with the tried and true. Burn, peel, and repeat.

Lets' face it, we lay in the sun every chance we got.  This continued well into our young adulthood. No one wanted to come back from a mid-winter get away without a little color.

Then one morning, it was time to pay the piper. Those creases on our face were not just from sleeping on scrunched up sheets.  They were permanent.  Our payment had come due! The sun had prematurely wrinkled our skin into alligator hide.  Spackling compound became the first item applied, when one was doing their makeup. Our moisturizing cream expenditures rivaled the National Debt.  I had my dermatologist on speed dial. Welcome to SPF 150, and floppy hats!

 I had finally learned my lesson.  It was too late for me, but I would be a watchdog for my children. Before I would head to the beach with my offspring they would be generously covered  in waterproof SPF 50 cream.  Their lips would be coated with specially formulated sun block. They wore long sleeved rash guards, hats, and water shoes.  The lotions and potions would be reapplied every hour on the hour. If they developed wrinkles, alligator skin, or worse, it could not be laid at my feet.

My children returned home at the end of the summer, the same shade of pale they were sporting when they arrived. My possibly over zealousness became abundantly clear at the close of one summer. An end of season photo was taken of their swim team.  All the children were photographed in their swim suits, sans rash guards.  You could be in a darkened room, and still be able to pick out my children.  They were so white that they actually glowed in the dark. The older they got, the more they bucked my sun paranoia.  Rash guards were being stowed away in back packs, hats were mysteriously lost, and I started seeing...TAN LINES!

 Whats' a mom to do? I had protected their skin for 12 years, and now I must trust them to use the quarts of sun screen and tubes of zinc oxide  lovingly tucked  in their back packs. I can only pray that they are quicker learners than I, and hope that their future doesn't contain a face full of Naugahyde. I am  fairly sure that they can't rig their I-pods into sun reflectors, to my knowledge  there's no app for that!

Sherpa Training

Every Friday evening during the summer, my husband makes the trek from up north , to join us on the Island. Every Friday evening, we get a call from our driveway, when he arrives. His message never varies, "send the boys down." My three sons hurry down the steps to help him carry in his things. One son lugs in his suitcase, which I have a feeling he lives out of all summer. Another brings in the leftover tomatoes, lettuce and bread, from his go to dinner meals of BLT's. The last one brings in the mail from up north and any other odds and ends .   My husband brings in himself. He would never make it as a Sherpa, but I think many of us moms would, we are the "Sherpettes."

Many of us have homes that employ the "reverse" living configuration. Kitchens being located on the uppermost floor. These are excellent training grounds for our Sherpette lessons.  You know who we are; the ladies pushing the overloaded shopping carts through the local grocery store. We are the hunters/gatherers for our families.  We load up on milk and orange juice, bread and cereal. Sacks of fruit, and packages of snacks. Barbeque fixings, and a variety of dinner ingredients. I can't vouch for anyone else, but I'd say easily 20 plastic bags of groceries enter my home weekly. This is not counting the cases of water that disappear like hot cakes.

How do you transport those overwhelming loads up to the third floor? You might ask. In the least amount of trips possible! The children always seem to be curiously absent when I return from a food run. So it's' up to mom to put on the Sherpette hat and get to it. I drape as many bags as possible down the lengths of my arms, while carrying a case or two. I have been known to toss dry cleaning over my shoulder, and carry my purse with my teeth. I slowly make my way up three flights, precariously balancing my load. Occasionally I run into an avalanche, when a bag or two breaks, and scatters the contents. This is when I get to practice uneven terrain maneuvers while  dodging rolling cans and apples. I am a Chiropractor's dream!

Once the supplies make it to the top floor, I set up base camp. Frozen food gets stowed, fruit gets washed, and the cartons with one millimeter of fluid taking up the shelf space in the fridge, get tossed and replaced with full containers. Apparently the mountaineering folk I live with, are emotionally attached to empty food containers, as that is the only plausible excuse I can think of for returning empties to fridge and pantry.

Mission accomplished, I sit back, and catch my breath. Miraculously my children reappear, and my newly purchased stores disappear.  I know tomorrow I will embark on yet another supply run.  I am  queen of the food aisles, master pack mule extraordinaire ! Happy shopping to all my fellow Sherpettes, see you at the grocery store.