 |
Departments |
|
|
|
Currencies |
|
|
|
Information |
|
|
Lion in the Sun
UV protective
swimwear site is
safe & secure
for
online shopping.
|
|
|
Articles on Sun Protection appear here, some serious, some funny, all (we thought), worth a read...
Slip slop slap
Lane Nichols in The Lost Boys | 8:15 am 26 November 2008
I once got so badly sunburned my nipples were erect for a week.
Not a great opening line for a romantic novel, but at least it’s based on real-life events.
Suffice to say it was unpleasant, tender and raw. They (my incinerated nipples that is) rubbed against shirts, starched bath towels and 1000-count Egyptian cotton sheets. The pain was unbearable. It was pure (self-inflicted) hell.
And after the nipples incident, combined with health authorities’ ongoing warnings about the dangers of our ruthless southern hemisphere sun, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson. But no.
Every year it’s the same. After hibernating for six miserable months of icy southerlies and driving rain, out comes the sunshine and I temporarily lose my mind – burning myself up like an overcooked slice of ancient grains Vogel’s or a 14-hour oven-roasted chook.
After enduring yet another Wellington winter I feel entitled to a little sun-worshipping madness. By late November I’m craving a hefty dose of vitamin B and my lily-white body is desperate for some solar radiation.
I hate being pale. I’m not an Eskimo in the far reaches of the Canadian wilderness. I shouldn’t have to don Blu Blocker sunglasses to gaze at myself naked. Yet every winter it’s deja vu.
I turn a pasty shade of fourth generation Kiwi. My carefully-cultivated bronzed Adonis hue fades into oblivion. The brown lustre of summer pales to sallow white.
So on Saturday afternoon, as I helped clear my brother’s Paraparaumu section, I shed my t-shirt and surrendered myself without question to the God of Sun.
Kapiti Coast is like the greenhouse of Greater Wellington. Its micro-climate is always several degrees hotter than the city, though its bore water tastes like dirt and you have a one-in-ten chance of a head-on crash on Centennial Highway.
Conscious of harmful UV rays, I applied a liberal dose of 30+ sunscreen. Face, arms, chest, back. Well I thought I’d done my back. But quite obviously I missed a large chunk, which is now burned the colour of molten rock and likely to lead to eventual skin cancer.
Why didn’t I slip on a shirt, get someone to slop my back with sunscreen then slap on Churchouse’s orange Mexican sombrero?
It’s because sunshine makes us all go slightly bananas. That feverish heat and lure of the greedy sun makes logic fly out the window. All that’s left is a yearning for barbecued steak, a steamy summer romance and a freshly mixed round of Cuban mojitos.
It’s the same feverish lust that takes hold of a romantic novel character in the throes of a climactic scene of passion. Caution is thrown to the wind. Rational fears like, “Will Matilda’s 120kg power-lifting husband catch me making love to her on the bonnet of his 1950’s Chevrolet Impala?” disappear like cigarette smoke in the breeze.
Important questions like, “Shouldn’t I cover up so I don’t peel like a leprosy victim then wind up with melanoma?” take a back seat to gaining a perfect all-over tan.
It’s only a one-off, mind you. I never get burned twice during summer and my nipples remain pretty much intact.
Maybe our novel’s romantic hero should suffer severe sunburn after being stripped naked and left to die by enemy soldiers deep in the Vietnam jungle, only to be rescued under heavy fire by a crack squadron of Black Ops marines, then nursed back to health by a beautiful but pale-skinned Croatian nurse – named Matilda.
Just a thought. |
|
|
|
|
0 items |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Accessories
