Sol Invictus

We have had a week of weather that hearkens more towards the coming summer than what is ordinarily early spring in Virginia. Every plant is spewing pollen coating cars and eyeballs in dust somewhere between lime and chartreuse. Chris says relaxing on the deck is like sitting in the collectivity of tree sex, as they shiver and waft indiscriminately on tree and mammal alike (my paraphrasing). However, as irritating as pollen is, it is only a minor obstacle in my quest for greater nature survival skills - the suburban version. My arch nemesis is the sun.

"The earth has received the embrace of the sun and we shall see the results of that love." so said Sitting Bull, he of the higher levels of melanin than I. With certainty the result of the sun's love will be another moment spent pushing fingers against hot skin and watching the bright white spots fading slowly, while pondering how much higher than SPF 100 there is.

I've always had a love-hate relationship with the sun. I am incapable of productivity without a flooding of natural light. Overcast days send me scurrying to couches with blankets and books and TV remotes. Life in a land of mist and fog would be unhealthy for me...add cold and it would quickly become unbearable. If I had inherited any pigmentation other than the pale, freckled Eastern European skin of my father I would probably spend my summer days basking like a lizard. Unfortunately, I would be better off tattooing "flammable" across my rear and carrying a parasol.

I like heat. I love being barefoot. Generally, summer is my favorite season. A shaded veranda, cold drink, a fan gently stirring muggy air...I can live with that scenario. Tropical. But what I get is a sun so hot and bright that white heat generates temperatures that are described as "104 degrees in the shade." What shade? All these trees in Virginia and it's always high noon. Even slathered in SPF 100 (yes, that's real) I still end the day with new freckles. As I hunker in a tiny patch of gray I'm hit with a one two punch of suburban American motherhood; the water park and the public pool. So while friends may shop for bathing suits that don't leave terrible tan lines, I prepare for my annual battle against the sun. Stockpiles of sunscreen, hats, sunglasses, sheer (perhaps marginally stylish) cover-ups, and repetition of the phrase "because you don't want skin cancer when you're older."

If somehow you see me at the pool, and are not blinded by the reflection of the sun off my pallor, I will be enjoying the heat from the protective cover of my hat, towel and umbrella shaded seat. The other option is to stand bravely in the light "for what is it to die, but to stand in the sun and melt into the wind?" I think Khalil Gibran understood although he too had the ability to tan.