When I was lithe and slight and eighteen, an early summer day would find me stretched out on the lounger in my rural back yard, slathered with Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil squeezed from that slippery bottle speckled with fresh grass cuttings, the promise of a deep island tan with the added benefit
of that classic "tan of the island" coconut scent. It wasn't a relaxing endeavor; some days I would restlessly squint my eyes against the noonday sun and check under my suit strap for proof that I was cooking, wondering how long I could take the beating rays before giving in. Other days, I would partner up with the hose and mist myself every few minutes, taking advantage of any light breeze that would come my way. And some days, the breeze itself was enough to cool the heat, and I would relax, willing the wind to blow, but never falling asleep like my friend Stef, who would snooze on her side and come away with a raging burn on one half of her body, the other half maintaining its original ghostly whiteness.I never had a problem achieving a tan. I can remember my dad coming home from work on summer days when I was just a child and declaring, "Well, you're brown as a biscuit!", a description he and I still use on my own little sunbunnies. I never had a freckle or a burn in my young life, just a Coppertone-girl golden-brownness.
As a teen, I would take advantage of this ease-of-tanning on those sometimes-blistering, sometimes-breezy days, feeling that I could give myself an instant makeover by just spending a couple of hours lounging around. My favorite part of the ritual was always the lukewarm shower that followed, the moments where the water would resist the oil and form droplets on my darkened legs, where the whiteness of winter would meet with the crisp, brown lines of summer. And then, after the shower, it was the choosing of the whitest tank top or t-shirt, something that would showcase all of my time and dedication. Of course, a thin layer of after-shower Hawaiian Tropic wouldn't hurt, either. Just enough to emit that summer scent.
After Bard was born, my skin changed. Hours in the sun would result in a smattering of freckles over my face and arms, but particularly on my shoulders. My legs, now carrying the weight of too many cravings, rarely saw any kind of light, let alone that of the sun, so they remained a pasty white. Though I'd never been into bikinis, due to a frightening incident of the realization of power when I presented myself in a white knit bikini to the young man I was dating as he picked me up for a boating outfit. His jaw dropped. I got scared. I changed into a one-piece. Still, I had allowed myself modest two-piece suits when tanning in my own yard. Now, the area that had once been my taught tummy, henceforth my big belly, would never again own a tan.
I have fantasies of living in that young body again, sleeping in it, running in it, tanning in it. Sometimes, like today when I was lying in my new lounger, the fantasy is so strong that I awaken with a sort of shock when I open my eyes to this frumpier, flabbier, frecklier body. And I vow I will change it. I will run. I will get fit. I will cut out the Dr. Pepper and the potato salad.
And I do think I should. I could just kick myself for getting out of the running habit, especially since it seems that everyone around me has picked it up and, ahem, run with it. And it makes me feel like a foreigner, an outsider, even a leper of sorts. Can't I just do this simple thing? Can't I just get out there and run?
But it seems that my impatience runs true. Face it, I tell myself, you have a hard time just LYING STILL for fifteen minutes. When running, I find myself constantly checking my clock. Am I done yet? Have I filled the time requirement? No? Then why do I feel like dying? When will this end?
And, unlike tanning, one outing doesn't offer a makeover. An afternoon in the sun would always elicit comments like, "Wow! You've been in the sun!" Unless I walk into the grocery store with my running shoes and jogging attire on, sweat dripping from my furrowed, impatient brow, no one will say, "Wow! You went running today!"
Even my pastor, my trusted pastor, has jumped on the bandwagon. On Sunday, he gave a sermon based on Hebrews 12: 1-2.
"1-3Do you see what this means—all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on? It means we'd better get on with it. Strip down, start running—and never quit! No extra spiritual fat, no parasitic sins. Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we're in. Study how he did it. Because he never lost sight of where he was headed—that exhilarating finish in and with God—he could put up with anything along the way: Cross, shame, whatever. And now he's there, in the place of honor, right alongside God. When you find yourselves flagging in your faith, go over that story again, item by item, that long litany of hostility he plowed through. That will shoot adrenaline into your souls!"Some pastors,those with less talent, might think that preaching on a running theme would be banal. Some pastors might focus on the pioneers who blazed the way, or the veterans cheering us on. But not Patrick. He preached on running, and it got me all fired up. He said-- and I kid you not, this actually slapped me in the face like a pair of wet running shorts-- "Running is something only we can do for ourselves." Huh. I can't pawn this running responsibility off on someone else, eh? If I want it done, I actually have to do it myself? What a revelation that was... even though he was preaching from Hebrews.
One of the reasons I would like to run is for much the same reason I would like to tan. When I was young, I was good at it, and it felt good. Running came naturally. It was simple, enjoyable. It was the easiest way for a kid to get from one place to another. And it provided hours of entertainment. Freeze tag. TV tag. Kickball. Foot races. Chasing boys on the playground.
But now, I'm forty for crying out loud. And I'm not a *good* kind of forty, either. I'm a flabby, frumpy, freckly forty. My friend and former running partner Kim, who took the easy way out and did not give up running, is a different kind of forty. She's young and trim and gorgeous. And when I see her, and I realize how hard she works to keep running, I think, "You can't look like that. And you don't deserve to look like that. You're just a flabby, frumpy, freckly forty-year-old who can't run a half-mile without your digestive system running the other way," and the old Solomon in my head starts doing the nanny-nanny-boo-boo thing. All is vanity. It's futile to try. What's the point? Blah.
So I battle with myself this way. Every. Single. Day. And if I do get out and run, I criticize myself for not running farther, or often enough, or fast enough.
See why it's easier to tan? Or, better yet, to just stay inside, in my room, at my desk, and write about tanning and running?
Except that today, as I lay in the sun, I actually fell asleep. I actually got a bit of a burn on my upper legs. I didn't use Hawaiian Tropic. I didn't take a shower. I didn't put on my whitest shirt.
And no one anywhere said to me, "You're brown as a biscuit!"
Not even my father.
I guess this means that a tan can't suffice as a makeover anymore. I need something more serious.
I guess this means I'm in the market for a new running partner, someone who can handle me running at a turtle's pace. And possibly vomiting.
And then I'll work on the tan.
