'Wow! You look sun-kissed,' I said to Allison when we met on Friday at Primrose for lunch (great terrace, not so great food).
'More like sun slapped,' she said. She was golden and a tiny bit sunburnt, ironically, from the British sun.
The sun and I don't get along. It burns me every time. And everyone says, 'But you're black, you should be able to handle the sun!'
And I think, 'Am I failing at being black?'
Because if I spend more than 15 minutes in the sun, I get these little rashes. Red bumpy rashes all over. It's really very attractive, especially when I scratch it.
To manage, I drench myself with 50+ sunscreen and then jump from shady area to shady area, like some bizarre game of hopscotch where you have to land on a shadow. Despite my best efforts, I sometimes find a patch of rash where I missed with the sunscreen.
Also, it's a myth that black people can just stay in the sun longer than others without ill effect. UV Rays are like F*&^%K melanin!
I ran my long run at 10:30pm to avoid the heat and, yes, the sun.
Since we are visiting my beloved in-laws in Juigne Sur Loire, a little village South west of Paris known for its rosé, I ran in vineyards that stretched on and on. I thought about how les rangs de vignes (lines of vines) look like cornrows (the hairdo, not actual corn rows, for which the hairdo is named after). Or lines from Soul Train where stylish grapes will shimmy down and show off their dance moves.
I wonder what would happen if I went to the hairdresser and asked her to hook me up with some sexy lines of vines instead of cornrows.
My guess is she'd probably sun slap me.