Summer's coming and I've got my annual ass dilemma. Tan lines. Maybe dilemma overstates it a bit, but it's still a pain in the... well... you know. I'm faced with the challenge of reconciling the effects of my active lifestyle with its impact on our swinging lifestyle. Somewhere between the mid-thigh coaching shorts and the G-string I have to draw the line – my tan line that is.

Being of Mediterranean heritage, I tan quite easily. Being a child of the seventies, the only "protection" we used for years was iodine-laced baby oil. Every summer for eight hours a day, five days a week I'd sit in the lifeguard chair twirling my whistle, glistening like a basted bird in the oven. I'd spend my two days off going to the beach or laying out in the backyard in my bikini trying to ameliorate the effects of the one-piece lifeguard suit. Even then, tan line issues.

As I pulled the shorts and jog bra off, he bemoaned,
"Your ass is ruined!"

Older and wiser, I realize the dangers and detriment of Ultraviolet over-exposure. But I can't help it. In my mind, the term "healthy tan" doesn't seem like an oxymoron. And besides, I think I look better in a tan. The problem remains. If you tan as easily as I do, you're going to have tan lines with as little as twenty minute's exposure. I came back from a four mile jog one afternoon and my husband came up to the bedroom to watch me change and shower (he's even a perv with me). As I pulled the shorts and jog bra off, he bemoaned, "Your ass is ruined!" Not words I wanted to hear after busting my tail for the last thirty minutes. Seeing the look of horror on my face, he clarified, "You've got stupid looking tan lines, now." And he was right. Even in the most modest bathing suit, I was going to look striped.

I know I need to get over it, but I just hate using sunscreen to go out jogging. And by the way, 30 SPF won't cut it. I tan right through that. It's got to be the 45 or 50 SPF. Just in case you've never tried to apply 50 SPF sunscreen, block out an extra 15 minutes of your life. Now, get a bottle of Elmer's School Glue. Squirting the glue through the attached applicator tip, apply glue to every square centimeter of your exposed skin. Now that you're protected, step out into the 90 degrees and 98% humidity. Inside your SPF capsule of lathered protection, your perceived body temperature (sort of like wind chill, only not at all scientific) is one thousand million degrees. This high degree of perceived body temperature requires a new scale beyond the Fahrenheit and Celsius calibrations. After holding a TH.O.N.N.G (Thermal Overheating Needs New Gradient) conference, it was determined to call the new scale of heat measure, F.U.C.K. It stands for Freakin' Uncomfortable Caliente Kelvin. For example, climbing into your attic in mid August to look for your son's football cleats one would say, "F.U.C.K, it's like a thousand million degrees in here." Other conditions under which the F.U.C.K system of heat measure may be applied are: riding in a crowded bus with both human and animal occupants in an equatorial, third world country in July (not worth it) and a threesome in a sauna (possibly worth it). Running in sunscreen? I'd probably have to put it in the category of third world bus.

As I see it, I've got a few choices and none of them completely fix the problem. I could exercise inside at the gym. But, here's the thing. It's a little known unscientific fact that treadmill miles are like dog-years. They feel seven times longer than the actual miles run. So, you have to use the P.I.S.S conversion factor (Perceived Induced Stress and Sweat) of 6.8. Treadmill miles (4) multiplied by 6.8= 27.2 miles; thus, every work out feels like a marathon. Compounding the mental defeat, the calorie counter doesn't do P.I.S.S conversion. So, you finish your treadmill marathon and according to the caloric counter you've burned off the equivalent of a breath mint.

The screw-skin-cancer tanning booth all-year-round/all-over tan solution would work, except for the claustrophobia and the unfounded fear that the text-messaging, sixteen year old who's programming my tanning time might not be paying full attention to her job. I imagine her hearing my pounding on the door after my mis-programmed tanning time. "What now?" she mutters to herself. She opens the door to the capsule and Geiger counters strategically placed around the country to thwart terrorism start beeping like mad and I look like Magda from the movie, Something About Mary. Maybe I'm just paranoid or I have a wild imagination. Nonetheless, I reserve the tanning capsule for desperate times like mid-November trips to Desire.

I simply cannot avoid summer sun exposure. Our family is far too active. We're boating, skiing, running, swimming, camping, mowing, picnicking and playing outside all summer long. I'm not a floppy hat, under the umbrella kind of gal. On the other hand, I'm done with the zebra look. No more multi-layer tan lines. So, I'm going to establish one, just one, tan line this year.

I'll take a sick day in mid-May and grease up with a slippery coat of 15 SPF. I'll sneak out onto the back deck of our home in our sleepy little cul-de-sac. While everyone else is working, I'll lay out topless and toast my ass in a minuscule G-string. There. I've drawn the line. And then I'll suck it up and use the 45 SPF for all of my vanilla outings and keep that precious little peek-a-boo tan line for those special few.

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