If I were a Thanksgiving turkey I’d be on the cover of a cooking magazine right now. Why? Because my face, arms, chest and upper back are burnt to a crisp.
It was too nice a day to work indoors this morning, so I dragged the Zen, the Mac, and the Razr out to the deck, sat in one of the cushy deck chairs at the glass topped patio table, with the glass doors behind me, and the shiny blue pool in front of me, and settled in to work.
I had, in fact, slathered on sunscreen before going out. I mean, I don’t generally burn at all, but I’m not stupid. Apparently, I didn’t slather on enough, though, and I didn’t realize I was getting crispy and red because there was a lovely breeze and I didn’t feel hot.
When I was forced to move inside because of a software glitch I needed to test on another computer, I noticed myself in a mirror, and thought, “Ooops.”
Two hours of work, a coldcold shower, lots of aloe-laced lotion, and three bottles of water later, “ooops” became “ouch!” My skin is glowy red – nuclear plant red – from the first knuckle on each finger to the where the chair reached on my back. And it’s still throwing off heat, which means I’m feeling both chilled, and rather tempted to claw the skin off my arms.
Fuzzy got off the plane at 5:30, and I crashed about then, waking when he came home to present me with an orange Jamba Juice and a kiss. “My god,” he said. “You’re really burnt, Lovey.”
Fuzzy is really good at stating the obvious.
The good news is, I work from home, so if I’m in too much pain to put a bra on for the next couple days, it’s not a big deal.
As for tonight? We had a tornado warning, and are having a dramatic rainstorm, and I’m hungry, and wanted a cheeseburger but that would mean putting a bra on, and, for that matter, something other than a soft cotton eight-sizes-overlarge shirt. So I’m thinking cold cereal more water, and a vicodin are in order.