Pasty-Whites

Many, many years ago, I was not averse to wearing shorts. In fact, when I played volleyball year-round and took up running in the school off-season, I liked wearing shorts. There's something about quad muscles showing themselves even when you're simply standing still that's irresistable to me. Something about the muscle lines on the legs...I love them.

In line with my juvenile obsessions, I believed that along with the hot muscles, you had to have a hot tan, which is why I spent at least 5 summers during middle and high school laying out by my friend's pool like it was a full-time job, occupying most days from 9-5.

You could say that I was obsessed back then. Obsessed with being tan and having rock-hard visible muscles.

So what happened?

That is not for today's discussion.

When I donned running shorts a few days ago, I hadn't really seen my legs since September. And what I saw appalled me. What I saw were my dad's inhumanly, off-color, nearly-dead-looking white legs. This color belongs to something that has never seen the sun; it's worse than albino white.

And this time, they were my legs, not my dad's. (I swear, Dad, I will never mock you for your pasty-whites ever again.)

Because it is 82 degrees outside today, I determined to get some color on my legs. I sat outside in the shortest, ho-shorts that I own for an hour or so while reading some (riveting) management literature. There is no visible difference in my legs, and not that I'll be wearing shorts in public (besides the running bit, but my legs move so fast, no one can tell what color they are...riiight!), but mentally, I feel better. I see color, not something so devoid of color that it requires sunglasses or a welding helmet to look at.