I am pale. I know this because whenever I decide to show my legs in public, both friends and acquaintances alike point out how “white” I am. I wish I could remember when people started to notice how pale I am, and when I started to worry about being pale, and others noticing. But I can’t. Growing up in Southern California, I should have realized right away how important it is to be tan; but I guess I didn’t catch on very quickly. Or I just didn’t hang out with people who cared? The closer to the beach you get though, the more important it becomes; and unfortunately, right as I got into middle school, when image (I think) starts to become really important, is when my family and I moved closer to the beach. Luckily for me, I was still fairly unaware of this tanned image I supposedly was to uphold. I’d say the real trouble came when I got into high school, although, for the first two years, I was too goth to care.
Anyway, at some point, I decided that I wanted to fit in, and therefore proceeded to lay in the sun half naked, on the beach, in the summertime, ultimately giving myself what felt like third-degree burns, and looked like lobster skin. All I wanted to do was drown in a sea of aloe. I eventually gave up on this dream to be tan—it was completely unrealistic and a rising skin cancer scare started to sweep the nation—the only other thing to do was accept my speckled, porcelain skin for what it is—white and freckled (not to be confused with those who have freckles and are able to tan).
