In my adolescence, Memorial Day weekend was the official start to “laying out” season, although I often began working on my “base tan” in April.
If you are of a certain age, you probably remember laying out.
You’d call up your friends and arrange for everyone to meet at the beach or someone’s backyard pool for the day. Preparation for this activity included gathering the proper supplies: beach towel or blanket, bottle of J&J baby oil or Hawaiian Tropic Gold, bikini, cut off shorts, tank top, flip flops, Igloo cooler full of ice water and beer.
Nowhere to be seen in the beach bag were things to protect the skin from the sun -- no hats, umbrellas, long sleeved shirts, or bottles of high, broad spectrum SPF sunblock. The whole purpose of laying out, of course, was to get tan. These things would interfere with that goal.
Laying out was an event in and of itself. Just about everyone I knew did it. It was a reflection of the blatant disrespect we had for the dangers of excessive sun exposure. It's why so many of us of a certain age are now facing the consequences of slathering ourselves with baby oil and lying in the sun for hours at a time as often as we could.
Here in the states, we are celebrating Memorial Day this weekend. Traditionally, it's a weekend where we honor and mourn the U.S. military personnel who died while serving in the United States Armed Forces.
For millions, it’s also a weekend to spend at the beach, all day, in the sun. Where I live in the Northeast, the weather this weekend could not be more perfect. High 70s, dry, not a cloud in the sky. This is the kind of weather that once lured me to the beach for laying out sessions. It was dangerous weather then for anyone prone to burning.
It’s even more dangerous now.
I have fair skin and hence, can quickly turn into a lobster if I’m not careful. (For the record -- I'm covered in a broad spectrum sunscreen in this photo. And obviously wearing a hat.)
I suffered a third degree sunburn once in my life. It was enough to make me pay attention to protecting my skin from that point forward. I was 17, a junior in high school, and the Friday before Memorial Day was a traditional day to skip school and go to the beach for me and my friends.
Friday that year was no exception. By 9 am, dozens of us tumbled into the parking lot of our favorite beach on the south shore of Long Island and prepared for the day ahead. We helped each other carry the coolers to the sand; by 9:30, volleyball games were underway and I and all my friends were slicked up with baby oil wearing nothing but our bikinis. We were there until 5 pm -- not a cloud in the sky and not an ounce of protection the entire day.
When I woke up the next morning I couldn’t see. My face was swollen so badly, it was purple. It hurt just to breathe. I had New York State Regents exams scheduled at the high school that day. And I had to take them. I arrived in the gymnasium with plastic bags of ice and frozen tea towels feeling sorry for myself and trying desperately to downplay the severity of what had happened.
One of my favorite teachers was proctoring the exam. When he got to my desk to hand me the test booklet, he looked at me and said, “Oh, Mary Lou. What did you do?”
If you've ever felt humiliated, you know what I was feeling at that moment. Not only was I embarrassed, but I felt deeply ashamed for being so dumb. I knew better. My father had been preaching the merits of sunblock for years, regularly slipping trifold brochures about skin cancer under my bedroom door.
“You must protect your delicate skin!" he would say.
But did I listen?
Of course not. Being a teenage girl with teenage girl sensibilities and a deep desire to be deeply tanned because that was the reigning look for white girls in the 80s, I ignored my father's advice and suffered the consequences accordingly.
Back then, I wanted to be like my friends who were either Italian or Jewish and had dark, swarthy skin and could spend the entire day in the sun and not have a hint of red anywhere. My skin doesn't work that way. If I’m not careful, I pay a dear price for excessive time in the sun. And that year, the price of vanity was severe.
So every year over Memorial Day weekend, I think about my grandfather who served in WWII. I think of people who are currently serving our country or who are veterans. And I think of my 17 year old self and her foolishness about sun exposure. I don’t mourn the loss of my ignorance about proper skin care.
I recognize how easy it can be to buy into what others are doing even if what they are doing isn’t right for you. I learned a poignant lesson from my stupidity that day and I’m grateful I did.
I wouldn't recommend getting sunburned or any kind of foolishness as a way of personal growth, but sometimes it is the only path toward true wisdom.
