I'd like a Pina Colada and SPF of 60 with That

I feel bad for today's kids. Unlike "back in my day" we didn't have sun screen carrying parents. I think I might have made a recollection of a life guard at the local pool wearing some white out on his nose and a hat, but as far as that we were oblivious.

Daily trips to the pool helped us develop a thick layer of protection in the form of a tan.

But today's kids days will never get to experience a good old fashioned broiled back.

Despite the layer of protection, a few days of ALL day swimming at a water park made me treasure things like the Aloe Vera plant, with its spikey fingers, mom grew in a hanging pot above the kitchen sink window.

If it were not for Cindy's sisters, I would never have perfected the tanning art.
You needed a trampoline for one. But we were trampless, so we had to do with two older towels, a timer or watch, and an old stereo.

A water spritzer, soaked napkins; cut almond shape so as to protect our face from sunglass lines. And don't forget the oil. Lots of it.

In Junior High I used the Tropical Island SPF of -1 as perfume because I loved the smell and it reminded everyone that I was TA-A-N.

It was about this time that I heard of a contraption called a tanning bed;
this establishment was located in the local bowling alley. And when Cindy showed up in the ebbs of spring already sporting a tan, I had to try it.

The time period was the age of Dirty Dancing so somehow sneekin' off to the bowling alley felt akin to one of the characters from the flick desperatem for an abortion had it done in a bowling alley, I mean some dark alley by an amatuer. Just didn't feel right. And it was exspensive to put my paper route money toward that. -- but of course that job was kept underwraps and my fellow carrier, Chel, never told either.



Now we flaunt it like a Master's Degree for hard work because we delivered papers up hills both ways. (only Sundays were in the morning so we had NOTHING to complain about. And I didn't have to have it as long as the boys, who, were stuck with it a very long time)

those pink or black play boy bunny stickers were always placed in the same spot so we could determine how much head way to cancer we had made.

Back in those days, tanning wasn't out in the open in a Tropical Looking, Cancer-Free bed with doors of bamboo, chairs and deodorants to freshen up and sexy lotions to make the "fake tan" last.

No, we were all about the real deal, for the most part. And when you did fake bake, you denied the three or four trips you made.

Orange skinned self tanners were scoffed at and no one died their hair. You were stuck with the color you had unless you put lemon in your hair to help bleach it.

I recall coveting Cindy's sister in church one day. Her missionary man was coming home and there she was in a white dress that had an open back and NO tan line. None. I was determined to somehow, someway do the same thing.

As college neared the bunny stickers were re-placed with the ones off of apples or oranges that we put on our hand to find out how dark we could get as a city flower girl.

Early mornings in Idaho meant winter gear, but by 11:00 we were cooly watering, weeding and driving city vehicles in tanks and short shorts. We ignored the whistles (they so often we just took them for granted) as we took pride in being a flower chick for the city. It was the the highest ranking city job you could get for serious tanners. And when we were allowed to go out in the rusty yellow jeep by or the dump truck out to the dump blasting Dy'er Maker, by ourselves, we knew we were hot, tan, and tough.

It was during this summer job that I recalled hearing for the first time the word sun-screen to protect yourself from UVB rays. Chel lathered the white out on at lunch time and I thought it was ridiculous. And what was with the hat; come on? how did your hair get blonder if you didn't leave it out in the open?

I faintly recall the donkey across the way from our grassy knoll that provided our lunch spot standing there, like he always did, crunching on a cracker with oats on it like rocks, that I started thinking: "maybe I ought to wear a little."

ONLY becuase at the end of the day, I felt like I'd been hit with a Mack truck.
There were a couple of flower ladies that always wore jeans and often long sleeved shirts along with hats. They rocked at horticulture but we were young and careless, it was all about the image.






So the other day after I had lathered up my SPF of 60, waited the recommended 30 minutes, packed it into my pack and headed to the same Recreational Park I worked at for a little league game, did I start to think back to those carefree days.

The teenage ump wearing the typical city worker uniform, close to nothing, made me recall the oiled skin days where you were envied, reverred and gaucked over..

Cap pulled down tight over my wet hair and into the third exciting inning of little league did I start to think I ought to wear pants and possibly a jump suit the next time I coach.

Of course the lack of water I failed to bring for myself was sure helping that sick feeling you get right before a car wreck. You are whoozy, parched, and suddenly empathetic of those little kids who don't seem to pay attention during the games. They are slowly being lulled into a deep sun stroke sleep.

I found the a lawn chair an older lady graciously gave up to me and had a parent go stand in the field as I downed Three of the kid's Gatorade treats. One of my co-coaches had brought a huge multi colored umbrella to put behind the kids' bench and I couldn't believe how ingenious that was. They managed to look cool under the protection of an oversized beach umbrella.

After the black hole started to open up a little, my team exuberantly ran to the treat people, was I able to pull myself from the lawn chair and let the Grandmother sit down.

Did I mention we won? After a little pep talk and determing what would be the best cheer, they chose 'Team' which I thought quite appropriate considering our humble beginings; I walked real slow to my car looking across the field to that old donkey's old residence. Now long gone I longed for the days of youth and exuberance!

That lasted all of two seconds and I headed to the Saline Station: the infusion center that replaces my electrolytes on a frequent basis. Having undone all that I'd received the day before (two bags) I sat in the cool of the office on a grey stylish bench across from a slab of slate rock with constant waterfalling H20.

There have been times when I have waited in that bench and wanted to go drink out of it like a stream in the mountains on a long hike, also, done only back in the day.

They brought me a package of crackers for the nauseau, mini water bottle and an employee came and commiserated about health problems and big anti-biotics that scare ya worse than that ball of fire up in the sky. And is part of the reason SPF 180 is needed, cause you burn on some meds.

I checked out a Surf magazine as I waited for my body to cool off in the air conditioned, tranquil, oasis of an Infusion Center. Flashbacks of a trip to Hawaii with jen during the college years hit me, too. A man sporting the latest in board short technology (we had only one option and that was it) stuck to his surf board in a crouch sliding aside a wall of water, a lip of a roof over his head like merengue pie peaks; brought the smell of Hawaiin Tropic's pineapple and coconut drenched product ripped into my stuffed nostrils. I sat and breathed in deeply of a memory of local beaches, honey bleached hair, and a milky brown tan; flaunted in November.

Thanking the nurses, staff and confirming the next re-fill, I headed home. Luckily I had the sunscreen close by, because the sun, which has been on vacation for the last eight months was barreling through my window on my crisp white skin.

I lathered it up on my burning arm and threw my sweatshirt over that arm unrolled the windows and in the faint distance heard Dy'er Maker from a flower girls radio.



With the help of the Infusion nurses, I got some food, picked up a med and talked about my little band of baseball boys and gals. Man, I am proud of them.

P.S. I just learned that Hawaiin Tropic has a yummy berry flavored SPF lip gloss.