 "Photo: Kristen Margiotta")
It's a sad story to tell, and it all started when I was in the eighth grade. I decided I needed to work on my tan - you know how impressionable 14-year-old girls can be.
So, I grabbed my Discman and my newest CD, Bryan Adams' "18 'Till I Die," positioned my lawn chair in the direct sunlight while wondering if the chickens really do have large talons.
I woke up four hours later.
"Lucky," was my first thought when my naïve self believed I just gave myself the perfect tan. However, when the UV rays started to take over my flesh, the pain set in.
My skin was burning; I was shivering and I couldn't move. The next morning was utterly humiliating when I arrived at school late because my mommy had to shower and dress me since I was as rigid and stiff as C3PO in "Star Wars."
All I kept thinking was, "my seared, maroon flesh is going to become the next Crayola Crayon color."
The front of my body looked like a prune exploded in a fit of rage, yet the back of my body was as white as a fish's underbelly. People could hardly contain their laughter when I walked into a room.
I couldn't even laugh at myself because my face hurt too much. The slightest movement produced a crack, as if there were two tectonic plates rubbing together underneath my skin.
Way to go, self.
The worst part was this horror occurred the weekend prior to only the biggest eighth grade event known to my junior high school: The Travel Club trip.
We were traveling to Busch Gardens, Gettysburg and Washington, D.C., where we would spend just about every waking moment outside. Yes.
Needless to say, I was diagnosed with sun poisoning and I was fortunate enough to repeatedly slather this green cream on my face that made the dead, molten lava, formerly known as skin, come off in large black clumps. Score.
I was a sight for sore eyes, literally. I had to wear pants, long-sleeved T-shirts and hats to protect my skin, as well as to hide my hideousness throughout the weekend. Major bummer.
Not to mention the fact I was supposed to participate in my first, and last, track meet throwing the discus and shot put.
Ha. I was barely able to move four degrees to my left, let alone 180 degrees to my right just to throw a metal object.
To this day, I am taken aback at how that one incident has affected my sunbathing, sun exposure, suntan, what have you.
About two months after "the incident," I was diagnosed with sun poisoning again in my face as little blister bubbles started to adorn my freckled mug while vacationing at the beach.
Are you kidding me?
I will say I have wised up over the course of eight years and thanks to my mother and grandmother, I never leave the house without SPF 30.
However, I was totally irked after spending three hours outside during the PiKA luau and an outside lunch at Homegrown last weekend.
I have the skin complexion of Pippi Longstocking, and when the sun does hit my face, my freckles emerge from hibernation.
This I am fine with. However, I was not fine when later on in the same evening, I was sunburned from my shoulders up to my forehead.
My poor skin hurt so bad I was barely able to hold my 22-ounce big beer at Grottos Pizza.
That's just downright blasphemous.
I woke up the next morning with my face resembling a Pillsbury buttermilk biscuit as I noticed it was one big flake, quite like myself.
And since my shoulders could compare to any football player in the National Football League, they received the most sun since it looks like two tennis balls rest on the tops of my arms.
"Oh girl, you got some color," is what my friends tell me, or, the more popular phrase, "You've been sun kissed."
More like sun kicked, so to speak.
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