Everything of late seems to be rubbing me the wrong way, from the bedsheets to my shirt fabric to the elastic band of my underwear.
I have a bad sunburn.
And while it isn’t a pain in the ass — thank God I was wearing boxers — it is everywhere else. Arms. Shoulders. Quads. Thighs. Calves. Chest.
My stomach is hot enough to brand cattle.
Let me backtrack.
We have a beach trip planned next month. So to get ahead of the game — a sunburn can ruin a vacation — my wife, daughter and I decided to go to a tanning salon.
In we went Sunday, girls first. When it was my turn, the clerk hit me with the question the other two members of my family already had answered : “Do you burn easily?”
Not so much, I told him. He sent me back for eight minutes.
That was mid-afternoon and by supper, nothing seemed amiss. But as the evening grew, so did my skin temperature.
I raised my shirt and was lobster red.
After rummaging through the upstairs bathroom that night, I found some aloe with a 2006 expiration date. Worried about its oomph, I bought some Solarcaine at the store.
Since then, I’ve been eating Advil like Altoids and trying not to be touched.
It could be worse. I could be in the Bahamas.