On a Universal Truth

There are some fundamental, universal truths in this world.  Kittens are adorable.  Meetings always take at least twice as long as they need to.  Only the good die young.  The list goes on and on.  But the one on my mind today is this:  tan fat looks better than pale fat.

I realize that uttering these words out loud (or typing them into my blog silently) constitutes dermatologic heresy.  We are told – ordered, even! – to slather ourselves with 1,000,000 SPF sunscreen and to wrap ourselves from head to toe in sun-resistant garments, lest we spontaneously combust in a painful, melanoma-riddled flame.  Failing to wear adequate waterproof sunscreen, appropriate shielding garments and floppy hats can, in some circles, subject you to branding with a scarlet “S” (for “sunburn”…. keep up, please). 

Do I reject this guidance?  No.  Do I disagree with the science?  No!  I accept that sunbathing, particularly sunbathing that results in sunburns, is harmful to your health.  http://www.skincancer.org/Sunburn/  I do my best to keep my son appropriately doused in 50 SPF sunscreen, even though (despite my best efforts) he is and always will be a little bronzed god, and I dress him in long swim trunks and a protective swim shirt so conservative in nature as to be evocative of only the trendiest swim clothes from 1877’s summer couture collection.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Punch_-_Masculine_beauty_retouched1.png  I accept that it is my fate, as a woman of German and Polish descent, to be (eventually) relegated to the shadows to live out my life in semi-translucent, permanently-freckled seclusion.  I have a dermatologist who tells me once a year to avoid the sun because it puts me at risk for skin cancer, but who also tells me that, for the most part and thanks to my days frying in pure coconut oil and working down south, the damage is done, really… all we can do is hope for the best.  He tells me that tanning beds are the bane of his existence, and that he hopes eventually we women all get the message that “pale is beautiful.”

But then he tells me that, if I insist on having a tan, I should get it through one of the spray-on or rub-on self-tanners. 

And therein lies the problem.

If pale truly is beautiful, why immediately suggest the alternative?  Because he knows that it isn’t really beautiful, at least not for so many of us, and certainly not as the term “beautiful” is currently defined.  To a doctor, a tan may suggest increased risk for melanoma, but to a woman getting ready for a hot date, a tan represents the ability to wear a strappy black dress without looking like a character from an Anne Rice novel.  http://www.amazon.com/Complete-Vampire-Chronicles-Interview-Lestat/dp/0345385403/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1309201820&sr=8-1

Whether we like it or not, being pale is (still) associated with fragility, illness, poor nutrition, and a lack of energy.  There’s a reason the phrase is “deathly pale” and not “deathly tanned.”  Look up “pale” in the dictionary and you will find such inspiring synonyms as “dull,” “faded,” and “washed out.”  When you’re already struggling with a little extra junk in your trunk, do you really need that kind of associational baggage packed into your Spanx?  Hell, when I pressed him on the topic, even my dermatologist acknowledged that tan fat looks better than pale fat.  For some reason, a chunky booty looks less, um… chunky… if it’s got a nice tan to it.  Those dangly arms?  Somewhat less dangly when they’ve been kissed by the sun.  The muffin top you’re toting around above your belt line?  You show me a muffin top that looks better when it’s pasty (nay... uncooked!) and I’ll show you a lovely invisible suspension bridge I’ve got to sell you between New York and London. 

At the end of the day, I don’t know why tan fat looks better than pale fat.  It just does.  Universal truths don’t need to be proven or explained, and sometimes they are just so true that they are incapable of proof.  They are universal truths because they are – regardless of explanation or origin - true. 

If you don’t believe me, just ask the kittens.  http://www.cutelittlekittens.com/

El Camino Inca

About a dozen years ago, my dad and I went to Peru together.  We had been talking about how cool it would be to hike the Inca Trail for months (perhaps years), and then one day, he said "we should go to Peru."  And then poof, it happened.  We went to Peru.

It was an awesome trip.  We started in Cusco, a city that served as the capital of the Inca empire.  Our first day there, we decided to head to the square for dinner.  We took a wrong turn out of our hotel - literally, we turned left instead of right - and ended up in an area that was most definitely not the bustling square, but rather was an other-side-of-the-tracks local neighbourhood, filled with... well, locals... wondering why we were wandering around looking so annoyingly chipper and (I am guessing) pasty.  Resigning ourselves to the fact that we were not destined to find the square at that particular moment, we popped into a local deli for some soup and bread.  I wish I could say that the soup was the most exquisite soup I've ever eaten, but it was really kind of scary.  But then again, so was Dad's, and we were in it together, so I pretty well figured if I was going to die of some weird uncooked-food-poisoning thing, at least I was in good company.

We got more directionally savvy as the trip progressed, and once we found the square, he and I ate some fabulous meals together.  We also saw some really amazing sites: Sacsayhuaman (the puma-head-shaped fortress built by the Incas right outside of Cusco), the Catedral de Santo Domingo (with images of the enslavement of the Inca people carved into the wood pews), the Temple of the Sun (stripped of much of its gold by the Spanish Conquistadores), the ruins along the Inca Trail, Machu Picchu at sunrise, the hordes of (lazy!) travelers taking buses to Machu Picchu... the list goes on.  We also shared the most awesome Snickers bar ever, sold to us by a little kid who materialized out of nowhere on the Inca Trail, just as we hit peak fatigue and were ready to start eating small vermin along the trail from a serious case of trail munchies.

But the coolest thing I saw on the entire trip was my dad.  There he was, completely out of his element in so many ways, but also completely in his element in so many others.  He moved effortlessly from dad ("Let it go... so they like their money straight and untorn... why does that bother you so much today?  You know, if you lived in Peru you might value nice looking currency, too.") to trail mate ("I think we should try cuy... how often do you have the chance to eat one of your childhood pets as a delicacy?"), then back to dad ("We need to get your mom a Mother's Day card or she's going to be really pissed.") then back to soul traveler ("No, really, I'm going to get my hair cut here.  Let's see what they can do!") over and over throughout the trip.  I got a small glimpse of what my dad is like as a person.  Imagine that... a real person!  No, seriously!  It's true!  Parents are actual people, too!  (I know.  I didn't believe it either, until I saw it live and in person.)

I don't know whether he looks back with the same level of fondness as I do for that trip; after all, I did (as he puts it) "bitch my way up the mountain," so it may not have been quite as fun for him to be around me as it was for me to be around him.  But when I think of Peru, I think how cool my dad is, and how lucky I was to have had him all to myself for a couple of weeks in one of the most beautiful places in the world, and how lucky we were to have survived the scariest soup known to man.  But we survived it together (the soup and the mountain), and that's what matters.

Happy Father's Day, Ratty!

An Open Letter (#weinergate)

Dear Men Who Send Pictures of Their Bits to Women:

I write on behalf of myself and all of the women out there in the world today who, upon hearing that some football player, politician or other random famous person has emailed, Tweeted, Facebooked or otherwise electronically sent a photo of his junk to a prospective hook-up, reflexively (when we finish laughing) say to ourselves (and anyone else who will listen), "why would you ever do that?"

Contrary to what you might think, as a general rule, women aren't really all that fascinated with your penis - at least not as fascinated as you might think we are.  This is not to say we don't like that you have a penis, or that we do not ever want to see it or otherwise engage with said penis.  No; what I mean is that, barring extraordinary circumstances, we usually don't feel like we need a photo of it, and it is exceedingly rare that we need a photo of it to pop up, unannounced, on our Twitter feed, in our SMS Text inbox, or in a Facebook chat box.  No matter how awesome the photo (or the subject) is, we are probably never going to hang your "masterpiece" on our living room wall, above our bed, or even in our garage.  Rather, we will store it on our mobile device, and whip it out at the bar after a night of drinking to show our girlfriends what this jackass we met on Facebook sent us, as if we wanted or needed such a photograph.  Or, as many of you have discovered firsthand, we will save the photo until it is least convenient and helpful to you, and then send it to Andrew Breitbart or any other media outlet that is willing to pay for it or give us enough publicity to assist us in getting a book deal.  Or to your wife.  You remember her, right?  Riiiiigght....

Of course, as I mentioned, there are exceptions to the rule - i.e. "extraordinary circumstances" - in which sending a photo of your bits might be warranted.  For example, if you had unprotected sexual intercourse with a woman, then a week later, discovered something that looked like cauliflower growing from the shaft of your penis, by all means, snap a picture and send it to her she she can show her doctor what to test for.  Similarly, if you have an unusually small or large penis, you might want to send a photo (upon her request only, after making the appropriate verbal disclosure) so she can either get her giggles out of the way before you come over, or do some sort of kegel exercise to prepare for the impending sexual armageddon.

Absent such extraordinary circumstances, there is really no need to send us a picture of your penis (or, for that matter, any body parts that are directly penis-adjacent).  Really.  However, let me also be clear that I, like many women, can totally get behind sending a woman a nice picture of your non-penile/non-penile-adjacent physique, especially if you are in the habit of "meeting" women on Twitter or Facebook; after all, it's completely reasonable in that circumstance to provide some sort of evidence that, while you may be too lazy to go out to a bar to pick her up the old-fashioned way, you are not, in fact, too lazy to run a few laps or lift some weights.

We've all seen what can happen when you send pictures of your nether-regions to women, and now that you understand our perspective on the whole "digi-bits" issue, consider yourself on notice.  To paraphrase the line from Field of Dreams, "If you send it, we will laugh... and then we will send it to everyone we know."

Cheers,

K

Cincinnati "Paradise"

Birds calling to each other.

Unidentified critters pawing their way through the woods.

An occasional breeze pulling through the leaves.

The plinky tune of an ice cream truck futilely making its way through my neighhourhood, searching for children who are either at baseball games or safely tucked away in the comfort of their air conditioned homes.

The grind of a chainsaw competing with the whirrr of a nearby weed whacker.

The distant throttle of a Harley, undoubtedly ridden by a helmetless good ol' boy with a ZZ Top beard.

Sitting on my deck, I close my eyes, hoping for a moment of peace to relieve the headache that is forming behind my eyes.  Nate and Byron are at a kiddie birthday party, and I am, for the moment, alone.  As the noise of the chainsaw overtakes the chirping of the birds,  I remember my days "down south," when the lapping tide was never more than a few hundred meters away.  Nostalgia calls, and I find myself wondering why, oh why, did we ever think that "real life" was so appealing?

Of course, even then, the graceful sound of waves licking the sand was not without interruption.  In Mexico, I rarely had any time to just lie quietly and relax; rather, my strongest memories of relaxation are of friendly gatherings on the beach, and the sound of French, Spanish and English conversations blending with each other and with the sea breeze and water.  In the Bahamas, the silence of the dock was punctuated with radio chatter between the boats, or the call of our Chef du Sport, Saber, to my boss, Jean-Paul:  "Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul, Saber"  Repeat.  Then, finally, with a sarcastic tone, "Oui, Sabeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr.... qu'est-ce qui se passe?"  In Cayman, home-brought lunches on the beach were frequently interrupted by needy tourists asking what time the next boat went out, where they could rent a floaty, or why the parasailing people were taking such a long break.  Of course, in Cayman at the Hyatt where we worked, there was also incessant pounding of hammering and machinery from the construction of a new hotel unit on the beach.

Even with all of the interruptions, though, there was still peace, quiet and comfort in a form that simply doesn't exist here on my deck nestled in the trees.  Because when you tuned out the conversations, the radio chatter, the tourists and the construction, all you heard was the water, all you felt was the sunshine, and you knew you were in paradise, or damn close to it.  But when I tune out the ice cream truck, the chain saw and weed whacker, and the good ol' boy's Harley, I still know I am in Cincinnati, 15 minutes from work, arm's length from my laptop, two rooms away from my blackberry, and seemingly light years from an ocean.  I may love it here, but it is no paradise.