The sun is my enemy. And I do not want it.

When you are fair skinned - a Pale-ite in Pope-pourri parlance - any time spent in the sun is treacherous. Not potentially treacherous. Actually treacherous. Throw in a personal and family history of skin cancer and you have a double whammy that makes any outdoor time something to be abhorred and even feared.

Summer, obviously, is the worst time of year for a Pale-ite - and not because of the vats of sunscreen my household consumes from June to August. We wear sunscreen 365 days a year in my house, not just in the summer. We are such year-long devotees of sunscreen that one morning, while getting ready to head out to an early matinee, Daughter declared she was ready because she had applied her sunscreen. For an indoor movie. In January.



So, no. Summer is not a problem because of the intense sunlight. It's because of Other People.

Other People in the summer perplex me. First, there exists the faction of Other People that do not use sunscreen. How many times have I sat at the pool or playground or a cookout, the sun blazing away overhead, and heard someone mutter absently that they should have put sunscreen on before they left the house? And there I sit, SPF 50 (mineral sunscreens only because I have anxiety about the chemicals that is probably illogical and slightly insane, but Gwyneth says no chemicals, so no chemicals it is), sunglasses with UVA/B protection, and hat, sequestered in the shade, immobile because I've garnered the only spot ensconced in the cool safety of a tree's protective branches. And Other People forgot sunscreen?!

I see Other People in the summer (cue Don Henley), their skin a beautiful tawny shade against their sun-bleached hair. Yet I return from trips to Cancun or Aruba the same exact shade I was when I left, my hair only altered by chemicals applied at the salon (I know - I fear sunscreen chemicals but not hair chemicals. It's weird. Let's not delve). I once returned from a trip to the Caribbean only to have a coworker exclaim that my trip was obviously canceled because I bore no telltale tan whatsoever.

Now, let's visit Sister's wedding in Jamaica, where both sides of the wedding party arrived at the resort a few days before the ceremony. By the morning of the nuptials, everyone bore some sort of sunburn, crescents of red at the borders of their bathing suits - parenthetical evidence of incomplete sunscreen coverage. Incredulous, they queried me. How had I managed to avoid singeing myself and my family in the hot Jamaican sun for three full days? While everyone else had managed to miss a spot here or there, my clan still looked like apparitions from a good ghost story.

Easy. It's the Pope-pourri plan for applying sunscreen. Step One: strip buck naked. Step Two: Apply a thick layer of sunscreen everywhere. Everywhere. Rub it in. Step Three: Don't get carried away with all the naked rubbing. Step Four: Dress for your outing. Don't forget the aforementioned UVA/B sunglasses and hat, preferably one with SPF in the fabric. Step Five: Reapply sunscreen every two hours or after you get wet, whichever comes first. It's like a drinking game - if you go for a swim, use a shot of sunscreen. If two hours pass, use a shot of sunscreen. If you sweat, use a shot of sunscreen. For a family of four in Jamaica for one week I packed 8 bottles of sunscreen. The TSA probably thought I had some kind of weird fetish.

Pretty much how I dress. In all weather.

The extent of my sunscreen use came to light at the Broad Street Run. The skies were black and rain fell like an icy waterfall for the duration of our run. While BABF, Friend 3, and I huddled in the storm, drenched and freezing, I blurted out that I was, in fact, wearing sunscreen. SPF 50. I was also in long sleeves, long pants, and a hat. In unison, BABF and Friend 3 turned to me, mouths agape and dumbstruck. Why? they wanted to know. Why was I in sunscreen when, you know, THERE WAS NO F***ING SUN AND WE WERE FREEZING?!

With the pride I've long since learned to embrace in the face of the incredulity that meets my dedication to sun protection, I intoned to the ladies that 70% of the sun's rays still make it through the cloud cover.

They weren't impressed - with either my knowledge or my sun protection.

Aww...Raggedy Ann and I are the same shade of white!

I am also perplexed when Other People are just as shocked by my persistent pallor during the summer months as I am by their absence of sun protection. "Working on your tan?" the manager at my pool quips as I pack to leave, my skin not only pale but glimmering white thanks to all the zinc. "Your kids are still so pale!" my neighbor marvels in August, while his bronzed kids peddle their bikes around his golden form. And you just sound like a preachy ass when you use your dad's melanoma to explain away your familial pallor.

You wearing sunscreen, Daddy? Cause that's sunlight pouring in behind you...

It's just one more thing that makes being a Pale-ite difficult. When you're a Pale-ite, you stash sunscreen like a smoker stashes cigarettes - there's a hoard in every purse, backpack, tote bag, and glove compartment you own. When you're a Pale-ite, you have to work out twice as hard as your melanin-blessed brethren. Why? Because everyone knows that white creates the illusion of extra pounds. When your whole body is white, nothing looks ripped unless you're doing Tracy Anderson with as much devotion as you're applying sunscreen. The only exception is your boobs. Pale skin doesn't make your boobs look any bigger. Your ass, on the other hand, looks like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man escaped the celluloid and hitched a ride on your back.

Being a Pale-ite means you can never wear pearly-pink nail polish or oatmeal colored shirts. Your wedding dress must be ivory, not white, and anyone who stands near you for pictures needs to be in ivory too. People often think you are ill, and anything stronger than baby products sends you into a screaming rash.

It's ivory because of my complexion...not what I did before I walked down the aisle.

My sole compatriot as a Pale-ite was my friend M, who sported blonde hair and pale skin so identical to mine that the desk manager at our gym insisted we were scamming the gym by paying for one membership and using the same ID card. He simply could not believe that within our hospital system there existed not one but two horridly pallid blonde trolls, fearful of the sunlight and all it represented.

The Italian neighbors thought I was a beautiful, if sickly, baby. (We'll talk about the nose later)

I did not marry a Pale-ite. Husband, with his melting pot ancestry, possesses such deep olive skin that even with sunscreen he sports a gorgeous tan in summer. Being married to me has been an education in Pale-ite-ism. Over the years he has become a devotee of sunscreen, thanks to what I like to think is my good example. Once, while watching an episode of Charmed, I asked Husband which of the costars he found most attractive - the lusciously tanned Alyssa Milano, the adorably freckled Holly Marie Combs, or the extremely fair Rose McGowan. Without missing a beat, Husband said Rose McGowan. I didn't ask why, because I like to believe that all the time with me has convinced him that Pale-ite is the only way to go. For him at least. I can recount all the boys that spurned me thanks to my pallor, but we shouldn't speak ill of the dead.

Relax. It's a joke. I didn't kill anyone. Have you ever seen how starkly red stands out against white skin? I'd be caught in a minute.

So I will continue with my twice-yearly trips to the dermatologist for cancer screenings, my monthly Honest Company bundles that include three types of sunscreen, and my SPF-infused clothes. I will continue to be ridiculed by my contemporaries -as the greats always are - and enamored of those blessed with an abundance of melanin. And someday, when my children sit, wrinkle- and cancer-free, they will thank me for ardor. They will look to the heavens and praise my good name.

Because thanks to the melanoma, I'll be long dead.

The Binge
The following are some good reads from around the web for you to indulge in while you're not applying your sunscreen at the water's edge:

dyingwords.net is a blog by former police officer Garry Rodgers. Among other things, each Saturday he explores famous - or infamous - crimes, such as Lindy Chamberlain - the actual woman whose baby was eaten by a dingo.

bodyforwife.com contains posts and articles from James Fell, a fitness writer - but don't let that stop you. He's dynamic and unapologetic and as he puts it "not for everyone". He also has a pic of himself shirtless on his site which gives you a lot of leeway to tolerate anything he says that you may not support.

themeateater.com is curated by hunter Steven Rinella. Full confession #1 - Mr. Rinella's works are something with which I became familiar through Husband. Full confession #2 - I married a hunter. When you're married to a hunter, you come to have a much better understanding - and appreciation - for their actions. You also eat a lot of squirrel. And sometimes deer heart. Thanks to Mr. Rinella, we have some mighty fine recipes. His publications - articles for various journals - are amazingly well written and sometimes not about hunting at all. They're also funny. His article on contracting trichinosis is make-you-cry hilarious. He's also incredibly respectful of those with opposing views and more than a little bit cute.

goop.com is a newsletter composed by Gwyneth Paltrow. It's everything and the kitchen sink, from fashion to sex to insider pics of her and her besties (Stella McCartney, Cameron Diaz, not Madonna). Yes, I'm biased. Yes, I swear by it. No, I don't follow all of it. I just read it, as they say in the inverse, for the pics.

timzimmermann.com is by the eponymous writer. His politics regarding animals may not always jive with the reader, but his writing is fascinating nonetheless. I recommend starting with his two articles written in the wake of the killer whale attack in Orlando in 2010.