… is what the expression should be when it refers to me. For most people the emergence of the sun means bare skin and tan lines, but not pour moi– I burn like a motherfucker and have to spend the summer months covered up like Sister Mary Clarence.*
Consequently, for me, summer is a time of envy of other women. (“When isn’t?” – you. “Fair point.” – me). At this point I’m far enough along in years that I don’t even bother to be jealous of the 20-somethings; they’re doing them and they’re basically a different species at this point. It’s the 30-somethings that really lather my soap at this point. So that you can join in the fun, here are some of the people I regard with barely-concealed envious loathing when spring is in the air:
- Women whose sunglasses make them look like glamorous bugs.
- Women who can wear those flat boho-chic sandals despite their total lack of arch support.
- Women whose artfully cut linen clothing makes them look like they could be the supportive friend in a Nancy Meyers’ movie in 20 years.
- Anyone who wears stripes better than I do.
- Women who have vaguely nautical-inspired tote bags with thin leather straps that somehow aren’t uncomfortable. How do people walk around WITHOUT fifteen pounds of crap in their bags– seriously, can someone tell me? Ugh.
- Everyone who looks like they’re having more fun than I am.
That’s just the start, I’m sure there’ll be more as the temperature heats up. Will keep ya posted.
*Once I went to a bachelorette party in Galveston and relied on the drunk bride-to-be to sunscreen my back– which is not the worst of all the mistakes a person can make in Galveston (I’d count *going* to Galveston as a contender there)– but resulted in me having a Jackston-Pollock-inspired millionth-degree burn on my back, broken up by a perfectly-white handprint where the SPF 70 had reached.