Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Ode to Sunburnt Legs

What kind of mindlessness allows one to put sunscreen all over one's face, ears, neck, shoulders, the curve of the scapula, back of the arms, back, chest, abdomen, obliques, and then forget one's legs! Mine, apparently.

Day One Afternoon: Legs look a little red. "Probably a little burnt," I say to myself, as I slap a bandage over the scrapes I got while snorkeling. It'll no doubt itch with great zeal eventually but nothing to worry about now.

Day Two Morning: Burning. Fire. I awake to find that my legs have become two flaming pillars of pain stretched taut over my musculature. Every hair, follicle, and pore has merged into one large overly sensitive pain network eager to let my brain know just how much they all appreciated the burning they got yesterday. If I'm going to burn them, they think, then they'll burn me. Cold water stings with a feel of sheets of metal on first contact then soothes only as long as the water runs. Make pacts with more than 20 deities (some of which should be mutually exclusive but at this point, hey, what do I care. Pascal is totally my man.) that if I get through this, I will sacrifice a bottle of sunscreen to them every eclipse of the moon.

Day Two Afternoon: My legs could be endorsed by Michael Jordan. They plump when you cook them (and they're oh so red). Never have they been a better imitation of large sticks of kielbasa well-cooked.

Day Two Hours Past Midnight: Get up to get a drink of water. Foot hits the floor. Awakening pain. Visually imperceptible ripples through my skin translate to a thousand trite needles stabbing at my legs. How long can this last, I wonder. Gulp. How long can my legs remain cooked sausages. Gingerly walk back to bed. When will the pain stop?! Oh sweet forgetful slumber.

Day Three Morning: Oh. It feels a lot better. That's a relief.

No comments: