Just Between Us

Considering the Rules

Better Safe than Sun-Kissed?

    I try hard to follow rules. Not just rules of law or rules on how to use my washing machine, but general rules regarding health and well-being, as well. I don’t usually question qualified authorities or doctors who agree that a certain way is best or that something is or isn’t good for you; once I believe the experts, whether  I like what they say or not, I generally heed their advice.
    A big bummer for me has been accepting the fact that I can no longer relax guilt-free in the sun and worship its existence. The threat of skin cancer and premature aging has trumped my love affair with the sun. Like many of my generation, when I was younger I took every opportunity to bask in the sun regularly—coated not with sunscreen, but with baby oil—allowing the intense ultraviolet rays to penetrate my skin, fill me with that glorious vitamin D and give my skin that youthful, sun-kissed glow. Ironically, my sisters and I, like practically everyone our age, felt healthier when we tanned. Those were the days.
    Fast-forward 20 years: Now I don’t leave the house without SPF 30 on my face. Whenever anyone in my family is outside, I insist he wears sunscreen and a visor or hat.  I make sure to stand in shady spots when I can, and I have tried to pound good sun habits into my children’s heads like a drill sergeant. How far I’ve come.
    I’ll never go back to those reckless years of damaging my skin, but I must admit that when I look at people who still don’t care, I have two conflicting thoughts: 1) shock that in this day and age anyone of any age would foolishly expose themselves to such irreversible harm, and 2) deep envy of that profound, free feeling of being shrouded by a warmth like no other.
    This sort of wistfulness is probably just a part of what happens to us in adulthood— adapting to the real world. And, I know, I know, it’s not a bad thing. In most cases exercising discipline and keeping our guards up is, of course, a safer, wiser, more prudent way to live. But for conversation’s sake, it’s fun to wonder what we all would be like if we momentarily retired not our moral or ethical conscience but the guilt that keeps us from indulging in our relatively innocent but forbidden pleasures. I envision moods boosted, cheerfulness restored. I’m picturing full-blown satisfaction: eating the whole cake, rather than one small, polite piece.
    This approach wouldn’t last long, I suppose. Soon enough, the consequences would surface; the undeniable downsides would catch up with us.
    Of course there’s always the “M” word to live by: moderation—it’s definitely the
sensible option and probably the best response to any bottled-up hankering; but it’s not nearly as much fun as just opening up some floodgate or another to a former, more carefree way of living. But unfortunately, it puts many of us, including me, in mind of the “B” word: bor-ing.
    The truth is, though, I’m all talk. I’m not heading out to the beach to trade short-term pleasure for long-term skin damage. Nope, I accept that those days are over. But a girl can dream, can’t she?