Burned


Well, at least the yard looks nice.

“Aww shit. I got a sunburn.”

It was Saturday and I’d spent the day outside working in the backyard: weed whacking, digging up the Bermuda grass out of the flower bed beside the shed, replanting some marigolds and sanding and refinishing the last few pieces of the flowerbed bed. It had been a grit and grime and sweat filled day and I’d been diligent about slathering on the sunblock to every inch of exposed skin: 70 spf, broad spectrum, applied twice for safety.

But I hadn’t thought to put it on underneath my clothes.

In the course of all my bending and crouching and sitting, my shirt had ridden up over the waistband of my pants. I’d spent a large portion of my day tugging it back down again and hadn’t thought much of it. But now I was changing into shorts to go for a run and I was confronted with a bright red streak across my lower back just above where crack met cheek.

“Goddamnit!”

It was even below the waistline of my underwear- a fact emphasized by the pale thong- notch down the middle of the burn dividing it into two red wings.

Redbull gives you wiiiiiiings!

Well, now Redbull had given me a tramp stamp. My buttcheeks were preparing to take flight. And I’d been so careful.

And they itched.

The cooling effects of aloe didn’t help much. Everything became a dilemma of unusual complexity: showering was an exercise in negotiation of water temperature: too hot aggravated the burn. Too cold aggravated everything else. Choosing underwear presented new variables of coverage and contact. Sitting involved being careful not to press against the backrest of the chair. Even slinging my purse over my shoulder in the usual manner meant dangling a large heavy object in such a way that it would strike against the sore spots with every step.

And it still itched.

Sigh.

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~ by Gwydhar Gebien on June 17, 2019.

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