For a fantastic account of our Delawarian adventures, consult the writings of Frosty or DC...

For an account of the true pain of its aftermath, please keep reading...

My back is on fire! Oh cursed alabaster skin!

I apply sunblock religiously, year-round, to every inch of my exposed body. Yet I still come home from my beach excursions redder than the lobsters with which we swim.

Tell me what I'm doing wrong here, please tell me it is not an unfortunate genetic indisposition!

It is a strange affliction. No one else in my family fares quite as unfortunately as I under the glare of a hot sun. My father claims to be fair-skinned, but somehow always manages to sport a substantial tan on his arms and legs. My cousins brown like berries in the sun. Burn? Never had one!

Why does everyone get to prance around with a tan while I have to write in agony, sleepless and on fire?

It reminds me of one particular instance. The fam took a trip to San Diego a few years back. We took a half of a day on Mission Beach (one of the best beaches on the planet, as far as I'm concerned, though feel free to argue). I put my sunblock on--I even had my mother put extra layers on too. I went for a swim, I put more sunblock on. I took a bath in SPF 50 at least four times.

By the night time, back at the hotel, iamnotawerewolf and I were screaming, face down on the beds, backs red as roses and as hot as hades. My parents and cousins just stood there with their tans and laughed at us for a few minutes, but then realized that the only way to stop the noise was to give us the aloe rubdowns. Sleep didn't come easy that night, folks. And by the next day, Wolfie had a tan and no pain, while I sported the humiliating hues of a permanent blush and the feeling of the fire of a thousand suns. Fair or unfair???

I wouldn't want to incite pity now, would I? There is some advantage to being ass-white all the time...

Enjoy your tans while they last, people...but don't come crying to me when you're old-looking and leathery at age 30!