I was wearing shorts the other day, about to roll out for a bike ride around the canyon. I looked down. Lo and behold, there were my thighs, fetching little knees and calves below, all Pasty Guy white.
Not your 24-pound bond Hewlett Packard Laser Jet Slick Copy Paper Pasty Guy White.
Not Your Sickly Wiggly Grub Under A Rock Pasty Guy White.
Not Mayonnaise Left Out In The Sun Radioactive Pasty Guy White.
But Pasty Guy White, nonetheless. I’ve some pals who are African-American. Well. They SAY they’re African-American. I don’t think there’s ever been a day when any of them have stumbled out of bed in the morning, looked down at their stems, nodded their head sadly and said: “Cripes. I’ve really got to get some sun on these puppies today…”
I have friends, the faded mauve ones, who are a human litmus strip. If their tan is fading, it affects their entire psyche.
“I’m overdrawn $1,000 at the bank, my dog died and the wife left me for the Sparkletts guy. I think I’ll go get a little sun so I’ll feel better…”
This past year, I’ve been on a fairly diligent work schedule. I sit in front of a computer screen — indoors — most of my waking hours so parts of my vanilla-colored body are starting to eerily glow in the dark. This was not always the case.
I used to be a lifeguard.
Which is a rather vague job description. I always thought they should call them “Drowning Discouragement Engineers.”
I also used to have a body like a Greek statue. I know. Some of you are bursting retinas out of their sockets raising your hands while blurting out: “Call on me! Call on me! Yeah! You used to have a body like a Greek statue — a statue of Athena! When she was fat!”
Bite me. Then go tattle to your one friend on Facebook (your mom).
Besides sporting a washboard stomach, broad shoulders and big arms, I had a Lifeguard Guy Tan. Dermatologists would shudder in horror at the number of hours I spent just sitting in a tower in my teeny-tiny red swimming trunks, getting browner and browner and browner.
It’s tough to imagine lying spread-eagle under Old Sol for months at a time. Every morning now, especially during the summer, I turn on the weather channel to catch the warnings:
“ULTRAVIOLET LEVEL IS 642 TODAY. IF YOU HAVE FAIR SKIN, YOU MAY ONLY RUN FROM YOUR HOUSE TO YOUR CAR BUT ONLY IF IT’S JUST 20 FEET FROM YOUR FRONT DOOR WHILE YOU’RE SCREAMING ‘GLOBAL WARMING! GLOBAL WARMING! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!’ AND BE SURE TO WRAP YOURSELF IN FOIL!!!!”
Besides Lifeguard Guy Tan, I had Farmer Guy Tan. The nice thing about Farmer’s Tan is you don’t even have to be a farmer. All you have to do is wear a T-shirt outdoors for 10 years to qualify for that working-class line of demarcation separating the dark brown skin from the white just about midway on the bicep.
I’ve also had Rancher Guy Tan, which is my favorite. Rancher Guy Tan is like Farmer’s Tan, except you have a Stetson tan line about an inch below your scalp line. I always liked the way that looked. It made me come across as honest. If you know me, I need all the fudging I can get.
I have a question.
Why doesn’t the California governor Jerry Brown have a tan?
With a name like that, it seems, just — well. Dishonest.
There’s Jock Guy Tan. That’s like Lifeguard Guy Tan, except you have a white line about two inches above both ankles from wearing tennies and gym socks.
One of the oddest tans I ever grew was Motorcycle Guy Tan.
For several years, I didn’t even own a car. I locomoted about on a big motorcycle and this was before the sad days when California enacted the mandatory motorcycle helmet laws. I still carp about that. You can throw this health stat or that mom-like Be-Carefulism at me. But what fries me to this date is that the politician who introduced the legislation into the state house received the equivalent of all the foreign aid to Central and South America for his bill. The guy was paid a fortune by the makers of — whom else — the motorcycle helmet manufacturers.
Riding a bike, I had a serious facial tan back then, no matter what time of year. I also wore sunglasses or smallish mountain-climbing goggles, so for a circumference of a half-inch around my eyes, I looked like a raccoon. But the most unusual feature of my tan was on my hands. Catching the non-stop rays of the sun, the back of my hands and knuckles were about as brown as a Hershey bar. The part of the fingers between the knuckles and the joint were lighter brown and the ends of my fingers were vanilla white. The strange color gradation came from wrapping your hands around the handlebar grips.
I can’t ever say I had Amy Tan. And even if I did, I might smile in fond recollection, but I’d never tell.
It wouldn’t be gentlemanly.
John Boston has earned 119 major awards for writing stuff. Besides The Mighty West Ranch Beacon, his work appears in the prestigious thebostonreport.net just about every darn day. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon. Read Boston’s daily blog, his Daily English Muffins, the Adventures of Job Hunter and more of John Boston’s award-winning commentary on thebostonreport.net