My wife recently told me that my head is “remarkably tan.” That might have been a compliment, but I’m not sure. My arms are tan, too, at least from the elbows down. The rest of my body is milky white, mostly unexposed to the sun for a few decades. 

It wasn’t always like this. As a child, my skin turned golden brown each summer. I don’t recall ever wearing sunscreen. In fact, I don’t recall sunscreen even existing in the 1970s. It was “sun tan lotion,” whatever that meant. Regardless, I didn’t have any goop on my skin, and I don’t remember ever getting burned by the sun. 

Summer wear for this kid was a pair of swimming trunks. This was appropriate, since the bulk of my hours between 2-9 p.m. were spent at the local swimming pool. The exceptions were Little League games where, unlike the uniforms of today, we wore a basic team T-shirt, blue jeans, any ball cap and tennis shoes. (And why were they called “tennis” shoes?)

Then, during my first week of summer while home from college after my freshman year, I was working construction on a roof tearing off shingles. I thought I would take off my shirt and work on the tan. Leaning over the entire day with my back fully exposed to the sun turned my skin into a bubbling, blistering, itchy mess from my neck to my waist. The only relief I could find from the burn was lying down and aggressively scratching my back on Mom’s shag carpet (with a shirt on, of course). I no longer liked the sun, and I swore I would wear whatever goop was necessary to prevent a burn like that from happening again. 

A few years went by, and, apparently, so did that lesson. I was out of college and working in Des Moines when some co-workers invited me out on their boat at Lake Red Rock, and I forgot to pick up sunscreen. The Heat Miser punched me again, this time in the face. My skin peeled off like the lid on a sardine can, and I was ill for two days. 

A few decades passed, and my doctor told me I may have skin cancer on my nose. A zip here and a zap there, and they think they have it handled. At least I hope so. I read somewhere that skin is the only irreplaceable organ. At 57 years old, that finally makes sense to me — even with a remarkably tan head. 

Now pass me the goop. 

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
President and Publisher
Big Green Umbrella Media
shane@dmcityview.com
515-953-4822, ext. 305