under my umbrella

I have taken to walking to and from school with an umbrella. I carry it rain or shine, most especially shine. I got really sick of the perpetual sunburn on my arms, neck, ears and nose. Not only do I hate my nose being red, but also with the red comes the pain. My skin constantly hurt. And no, it does not turn into a tan. Ever. It stays burned. So I am taking a page out of Scarlet O'Hara's book and carrying what my friend John calls a parasol. I call it an umbrella. It's a plain black, no nonsense, umbrella that certainly doesn't fit the description of anything so feminine and decorative as a parasol. I like it because it looks functional. I'm not trying to make a fashion statement, or to draw attention to myself; I am trying to be comfortable.

One of my biggest fears, no joke, is sunburn. It's right up there with fears of abandonment and failure. I get physically ill when I see a sunburn, and I cringe in direct sunlight. I have been traumatized by sunlight.

When I was little, the rule about swimming was that I had to wear spf 50 sunscreen and a tee-shirt, or I had to stay in the shade. Even then, I always came away burned and often carried blisters for days. These were not innocuous blisters but mean inch-long pulsing beasts raised half an inch off of my skin, covering my shoulders and back. I've sat in baths of ice to ease the burning, which continued from the inside out, cooking my legs after a day at the lake. I needed blessings for healing after an afternoon at the pool. I've borne scars for months, delineating exactly where my shirt ended and my neck began.

That's not the worst I've ever experienced, however.

In August of 2003, I went on a road trip to California with Alyessa. We spent three hours on the beach, applying and reapplying sunscreen often. To be safe, I donned jeans after an hour to further protect my legs. It didn't help. The next day I woke up paralyzed, my legs bent at the knee as though I were crouching. The skin looked like maroon leather and the muscles underneath formed strange hard lumps, shriveled up from the heat. Alyessa had to physically stretch out my legs, a little at a time, until I could stand. The pain was horrendous, the tearing and burning that no medication could mask fully. We had to repeat this process every time I needed to walk. On the two-day drive home, I shuffled with my legs crouched under me, in the same position they had been in as I sat, whenever we stopped at a gas station. At home, I had to remain in bed, face down, while antibiotic cream and aloe were applied to the wound. My legs swelled to a uniform cylindrical shape. Joyce said I had "thankles" (thigh-ankles). When I began walking, I used my dad's cane and crouched, so as not to tear the shriveled muscles. I began to stretch them slowly, but two weeks later I still had to use the cane and walk very slowly.

My roommates don't remember my first three days in our apartment when I used a cane, and they never saw the scars. But anyone I have lived with knows my rather extreme reactions to witnessing sunburns. I preached sunscreen and deplored tanning. I kept aloe on hand, ready to dole out at any provocation. I never swam in daylight, though I had no issue with wearing swimming suits. I wore jeans no matter how hot it got.

Some of these things have changed. I still think tanning is stupid, and I advocate use of aloe. But I do wear shorts now, and skirts, quite often. It's the only thing that makes the heat bearable. But I haven't lost the fear of the sun. To compensate I carry my little black umbrella, and I smile at the sideways glances tossed my way. I don't mind looking foolish: I'd rather be practical and appear foolish than vice versa. And while a parasol may be a little silly, my umbrella is nothing if not practical.