Two weeks ago I sat out in the sun on a beautiful spring afternoon. I’d just been to the shops and bought a new pair of shorts which so happened to be a perfect accompaniment for a bit of sun exposure. I’m naturally a pasty white person, there ain’t no tanning this. However, I’d spent the last 3 years in Scotland with no sun, so I was hopeful of at least losing this translucent look I’ve got going on.
So there I was, perched on the outdoor furniture. I’d just put my child down for a nap and had a good chunk of time to myself. I got out some of my study material and off I went. This delicious sun was warming my legs, my body and my soul. I’d forgotten about this simple pleasure.
I was so excited that I even posted to Instagram about my sun time.
My downfall was not realising just how hot it was and also not setting an alarm. Turns out my kid decided to sleep for more than two hours, I lost track of time and well, can you see where this is heading?
This is where the 5 stages if sunburn grief come in.
Parts of following are excerpts from wiki.
Denial — “I feel fine.”; “This can’t be happening, not to me.”
This is usually when you’ve come inside, and you’re looking down at your legs, they’re pinkish. You’re adamant that they are going to stay that way and you’re actually not that burnt.
Anger — “Why me? It’s not fair!”; “How can this happen to me?”; ‘”Who is to blame?”
You were wrong! You are to blame! You’re a lobster! And you’re in pain! They’re getting redder by the minute. You’re huddled in the shade, but you’re middle finger is saluting the sun.
Bargaining — “I’ll do anything to go back in time.”; “I will give my life savings if…”
This is when you’re on Pinterest looking for ideas to stop it getting worse, or at least help with the new red glow you’ve got going on. You’ve apparently got to boil earl grey tea bags, mix in the sperm of a whale and add seven teardrops from seven virgins. In other words, you’re up shit creek without a paddle.
Depression — “I’m so sad, why bother with anything?”
Now you’re sitting there, staring down at your red skin and thinking you were better off being translucent. Especially now that you’re as itchy as a fother mucker.
Acceptance — “It’s going to be okay.”; “I can’t fight it, I may as well prepare for it.”
Well done. You’ve made it to the end and you know that you’re going to go red, peel and be white again within a few weeks. So you just roll with it.