Current location:	florida
Current mood:	annoyed
Current music:	'shut up and let me go' -- the ting tings

whiter shade of pale
Being the only twentysomething in the land of septegenerians, I've discovered, is somewhat good for my ego. Back home, I can put on my bathing suit or my short gym clothes, go out in public, and immediately feel chubby, unattractive, uncertain, exposed, or any other number of self-conscious traits. Here, who gives a shit? That's the beauty of many of the elderly, I've decided -- their inability to give a damn what anyone else thinks. Whether she's 75 pounds of skin & bones or 300 pounds of skin & fluff, a woman here parades around in whatever she wants, whether she should really be wearing it or not. If at any moment I'm feeling shameful about the way I look, I need only to glance around, because there's always someone who looks at least a little worse-off than I do, if not a lot. And who cares? She. Doesn't. Give. A. Shit.

That being said, I'm not immune. At the community center, I had just changed into my two-piece and was prepping for my daily laps at the pool. Standing in front of the sinks, I was rinsing my water bottle when a lady walked up beside me, suddenly appraising my suit-clad body.

"Oh! I hope you brought sunscreen!" she trilled in a Fran Drescher-style nasal twang. "Because honey, you are paaaaaaale!"

Even after years and years and years of hearing this sentiment, I'm still trying to figure out when it became acceptable to make such a comment in a crude, cutting fashion. Why is it okay to comment negatively on someone's skin tone (or lack thereof), yet it's not okay to comment on a little extra weight, or the brittle condition of someone's hair? I doubt she would have ever waltzed up and said, "Oh! I hope you brought some celery sticks, because honey, you are faaaaaaaaaat!" or "I hope you brought some conditioner and a set of clippers, because honey, your hair looks like straaaaaaaaaaaaaaw!" I don't get it. I know I'm pale. And I can't really help that. Hell, she didn't even experience my true degree of paleness, because I'd been putting on a little self-tanner all week. If she'd seen my real skin color, she may have actually died from shock.

Anyway, I looked back, giving her a good once-over and silently judging her with all my might. Older, with dried-out bleached-blonde hair. Dark, tanned, saggy skin, with a face resembling alligator skin, lined with the type of wrinkles brought on by smoking and sun damage. She was relatively in-shape, for her age, and wearing a leopard-print bathing suit. A veritable cougar -- or wannabe cougar, I should say -- if I ever saw one.

Despite my temptation to reply, "Yes, I did, because I don't want to look like you in thirty years," I simply offered a tight-lipped smile and said, "Yes, I know. I always wear sunscreen. I don't tan." In retrospect, I now wish I'd made up some fantastical story. Something about being albino, and thus abandoned by my real parents when I was two, being bounced back and forth among foster homes until I was old enough to run away, then being raised by polar bears in the arctic, who accepted me because they, too, knew what it was like to be the snow-white carnival freak.

Her jaw dropped. "Noooo. Never?"

"Never. I burn, then peel, then I'm pale again."

This nugget of information apparently startled her -- my God, how awful for you, you poor, translucent creature -- and she kept quiet as I continued about my business, filling the water bottle and then heading to the shower to rinse my hair before swimming. She simply collected her things, and I heard her tsk-tsking as she headed out the door. Meanwhile, I went about my business and headed to the pool, hoping that my stark, startling paleness didn't send any unfortunate epileptic geriatric into seizures.