So, along with the swim trunks provided by the Mother of the Fiance of the Blog (who from now own will go by Mrs. Blog, by request), my going-away care package from Orange County included some truly high-powered sunblock.
But here's the thing--sorry, Helga--I haven't used any of it. And I haven't gotten sunburned! Granted, I haven't exactly been sunbathing... my only shirtless moments at the beach were around sunset, so no harm done there. But I HAVE been outside quite a bit, and I DO have a pasty Irish complexion, so what gives? Perhaps my sweat has some kind of prismatic anti-UV properties, in which case I need to bottle the stuff and get rich.
The bigger hazard at the moment seems to be getting a tan (or at least a "less pale") in the pattern of my clothing. Worse, because I wear sunglasses everywhere, I'm worried about the dreaded raccoon tan. (I searched for a good picture of it, but they were all so horrifying I just gave up)
Sadly, I think we know how this story ends. I get overconfident... I play beach volleyball for eight straight hours at the Corniche... I turn fire-engine red. The blog post will be epic; weep for me now.
On a more positive note, I have pictures of Hop Fest, the somewhat lackluster beer festival most notable for occurring in the Middle East, and of the dual victory today of both finding nehari and riding the bus to (almost) work. Coming soon.
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