Pigment Challenged

I am a fair-skinned woman.

Scratch that. 

I am a very fair-skinned woman.

My ancestral makeup is Swedish, Irish, English, Dutch, and Scottish; AKA: the whitest people on earth. Luckily, my dark hair allows for a bit of contrast, so you can at least see that I have features.

Growing up in the south before the era of the Mystic Tan was murder. I would slather baby oil all over my skin and broil in the southern heat for hours. My reward? A "tan" of second-degree sunburn, some super-sexy peeling, and then... you guessed it... white again. Red or white. Those were and are my choices. Sometimes, if I damaged my skin often enough in one summer, I'd freckle and those freckles would sort of grow together. But that's it.

I was so envious of my friends who would complain about sock lines if they were out in the sun for even 20 mintues.

Then came self-tanner. A miracle in a bottle! It wasn't much help. First of all, it reeked. And it left streaks. And it turned you orange. And even if you washed your hands IMMEDIATELY after applying it (like it said to on the bottle--I'm a stickler for directions), you still ended up with orange palms. It was like wearing a scarlet letter--only it was a smelly orange letter, and it was scrawled unevenly all over your palms and arms and legs.

So I gave up. After high school, it didn't seem like such a big deal anyway. I started wearing sunscreen every day (still do, and I have the face to prove it). I usually avoid shorts, opting instead for longer skirts or linen pants in the summer.

The Beau did not understand my (lack of) coloring for a long time. You see, he's Italian, and he gets the most beautiful burnished tan after only minutes in the sun. Never burns. When we have our photo taken, he's a beautiful shade of cafe au lait, and I, well, I just look like au lait. He was amused by my continual desire to sit in the shade (he loves the sun) until the day I sat in the sun and got sunburned THROUGH a pair of pants (oh yes, some of us are lucky enough to be able to burn anywhere at any time, even through protective clothing). 

And when we were in New Orleans with his family, his equally tan sister looked (ok, squinted) at me and said Wow, you haven't spent any time out in the sun working on your tan, have you? I glanced down at my freckled shoulders and remarked This is my tan.

She stared at me. She didn't realize that some skin doesn't tan. She thought I was fishbelly white by choice!

And then it hit me; I realized that I AM fishbelly white by choice--it's just that my other choice is lobster red instead of cafe au lait. I have to say, it gave me a sense of peace.  In the immortal words of Popeye, I yam what I yam.

So, to everyone out there, embrace who you are because, well, it's who you are!