For me, getting a sunburn is like getting really rip-roaring drunk. It’s all about self-control. About not heeding the sweet song of the sirens of excess. About not being a freakin’ idjut. So you get sunburned. A Mars-dipped-in-grenadine red. A lobster-mating-video red. A Harvard-mascot-who-farted-while-giving-a-speech red. And you get drunk. But not a nice, pleasant drunk. The worst, sickly, spinning, pounding, upside-down teacups drunk. A marriage-for-her-greencard drunk. A smells-like-a-barbershop drunk. A “Let’s-make-a-movie-about-spiders-and-call-it-Eight-Legged-Freaks” drunk.
The sunburn doesn’t make me feel bad, though. And I’ve never gotten sick from it. It’s just that morning after feeling. The I’ll-never-do-that-again feeling. The who-was-I-trying-to-impress? feeling. The it-hurts-when-I-pee feeling.
But like the saying goes, “Rehab is for quitters.” And I’m no quitter. I’ll be back out on the beach next weekend, sans an umbrella, avec a margarita