Reason 238

Protection. No, I'm not referring to the kind of protection that can save your naughty bits from developing funky-colored pustules (although I'm happy to give you STI information, if needed, Jason). Rather, I am talking about defeating the sun's cancerous rays from baking our bodies until we resemble Sebastian, that adorable crab from The Little Mermaid. I have been extremely fair-skinned since I shot forth from my mother's loins and practically turn tomato red if I dare set foot outside in sunny weather without coating myself in a layer of SPF 30. I guess I can thank my pasty English ancestors for that (at least my teeth turned out all right). Almost every vacation I've taken to a tropical location is connected to the memory of a heinous sunburn that incapacitated me for days on end and drove my friends and family insane because they had to listen to my cries of agony as I moved even the slightest inch. In Acapulco it was my adorable little feet; Hawaii thought my back could use some extra vitamin D; and in central Oregon (yeah, I know that isn't exactly topical - but it's still hot as Hades) I burned the backs of my legs so badly that for at least three years afterward I had a line on my thighs where my shorts ended. This summer I have already endangered my face, which is now peeling in a lovely manner, my scalp, and the tops of my knees. You'd think that after all of my sun-related calamities I would be smart enough to bathe in sunscreen each morning during those ten hot days Seattle experiences each year. Well, apparently my stubborness beats out my intelligence since I haven't seemed to learn my lesson yet. I'm hoping, Jason, that whenever we're hanging out in the sun you will gently remind me to put on some protection, especially on the tops of my ears and over my tattoos (gotta' preserve that investment!). I may roll my eyes at you in annoyance, but inside I will be doing a happy dance knowing that you care about my skin's well-being. I'm not sure what your heritage is, but if you happen to avoid that blazing ball of gas in the sky the way Lindsay Lohan avoids responsibility, I will be more than happy to slather your back with lotion. I will not, however, put the lotion in the basket. Sicko.