I Hate Sunburn

I hate sunburns passionately. I must be in the top 1 percent of all sunburn haters. If sunburns were a political party, I’d organize night rallies against it. I’d spray aloe vera in its face, picket events while toting “Heat is Murder” signs and tea bag it whenever possible.* I’d start a sunscreen smear campaign, raise a million dollars for hate ads, and end every attack with “This message is endorsed by the human race,” showing people of all races holding hands except a lobster red-colored kid being shunned by the party.

The problem is, sunburns occupy that unfortunate area you never want to be in:

They hurt like hell, lead to cancer and absolutely nobody feels sorry when you get them. If I thought it would be a fun experience to juggle knives, support would flood in when I inevitably slashed my hand. If I tried to ski a double-black diamond on my first try and blew out my ACL, I’d have 30 “Get Better” cards.

But stay out too long in the sun and you get the patronizing “Didn’t you put sunscreen on?” or the even more patronizing “I thought that only happened to little kids.”

WRONG. Everyone gets sunburned, especially if your sunscreen lies to you about its magic powers of water resistance. Twenty minutes in the water and my SPF failed me worse than a Walder Frey oath. I should have tossed that tube in the ocean and watched it drown, arms flailing, lungs filling with water, resisting and failing miserably. As you can see, I’ve taken to anthropomorphizing the sun and sunscreen, and boy does it feel good to have a target. Because otherwise I’d have to blame myself.

And that’s the crux of it: the only person you can ever blame for your sunburn is yourself. I’m an idiot. I’m stupid, you think. And the constant pain on your shoulders and back declares, yes, you are a moron. The sunburn stings physically and emotionally, reminding you that you’ve failed yourself in the pursuit of tanning, beer, or laziness. Ever watch an obese person chow down a pie, then regard himself with a comic, tragic self-loathing? That’s me every time I look at my stupid pink flesh in the mirror, rubbing myself in sticky, greasy aloe vera.

The other treatments aren’t much better. Tea bags? Vinegar? I don’t know if I’m helping the sunburn or making a salad but I do know the end result: I will be unsatisfied, unhappy, and unsurprised by my lack of skill. Let’s get this over with and start the skin peeling already—I have things to do and would prefer to look like Frankenstein’s monster sooner rather than later, please.

In the end the sunburn will fade but the damage will be done, as any dermatologist will stoically remark as he or she takes a thousand dollars from your wallet. Sunscreen every morning, avoid direct light, and watch out for holes in the ozone (like we can see them). But by then the pain will have faded and I’ll forget what it was like and I’ll run into a friend who looks like a lobster.

“I got a bad sunburn,” he’ll tell me. “I was on a junk and fell asleep.”

 “It’ll get better, don’t worry!” I’ll say, slapping his back. He’ll scream in pain and I’ll think, Suck it up, pansy, it’s not that bad. And the cycle continues.

*That’s a home remedy, sickos.