Curses upon my celtic ancestors. While my parents burnish and glow with sunlight, I am a lobster salted with nutmeg.
Twenty minutes in the sun and you know exactly the shape of my bikini because it will be burnt into my epidermis for the next seven years. Did I mention that I live in Australia, home to beautiful beaches (that I rarely see before seven pm)?
This is a very lomgwinded introduction to my current preoccupation (where current may last five seconds to five - wow! Shiny!)...
Ripped jeans. I know, in and of themselves not terribly interesting. However, the trend of large rips, gaping holes and awkward torso-exposure (that's me tactfully describing the expanse of flesh often sloshing between top and strained waistband) has me wonderig about tanlines.
Do these girls wind up with a tanned rectangle on their right thigh, browner knees and a stripy left shin while a tanned bike tyre graces the top of their posterior? Or do they sneak sunscreen on the exposed bits? Hang on, they don't even know where to purchase sunscreen.
Maybe they tape over the already-tanned bits before getting their oompa-loompa on (clarification: getting fake tanned, not some bizarre sex act. Who ARE you people?!), although on reflection being fake tanned (stripping, donning strange underwear, exposing intimate body parts to a stranger) - let's stop now.
2 days ago