Fair Trade

     I would gladly trade skins with my wife. She is blessed with an olive complexion...fortunately not the pitted variety. Besides being  low-maintenance, her skin also looks great with a variety of color palettes, including pimiento, almond, garlic and blue cheese.
    I, on the other hand, suffer from an affliction known as "fair skin." My genetic code and northerly point of origin left me with a outer coating reminiscent of the Twilight movie franchise--and I'm not talking about that guy with the flea collar and ice-cube-tray abs. I'm talking about the one who looks like an ice cube. I don't glitter, but my skin is supernaturally efficient at absorbing harmful rays and repelling the active ingredients in sunscreen. I've seen weird little frogs and fish with the same condition. As if that wasn't enough, my skin is also varied in its UV sensitivity. How else could my wife swear on her mother's life that she coated my exterior evenly with sunscreen and yet I still end up looking like I'm wearing pink camouflage? Maybe the military should trademark the pattern in case they ever decide to launch a ground assault in Candy-Land.
     The only redeeming part of a sunburn is the inevitable post-burn-skin-peel. An even burn can produce dead skin sheets almost large enough to re-purpose and reuse, but most people don't share my interest in environmentally responsible plastic-wrap alternatives.
     For some reason, it's more socially acceptable to be fifty pounds overweight, shirtless and tan than it is to be normal size, shirtless and pale. My condition is also fair game for complete strangers to mock publicly. "Dude--you're so white--put a shirt on!" Ummmm...thanks. I wasn't aware of my own skin color.
   
    Oh well, it doesn't matter much--cause I'm going to cover it up with my rubber suit anyway!

Rubber Suits

     

"If you ask for a 5/3 they'll look at you funny. You want either a 4/3 or a 3/2." My friend, a long-time resident of Santa Cruz County, coaches me on wetsuit-shopping. "You should really look into getting the 'Mutant' model," he concludes. I'm not sure if his advice is surfing-related, or a commentary on my body but I'm grateful for the help. I'll be heading to O'Neill's first thing Saturday morning to try on rubber suits.  This is serious stuff. The last thing I want is to look funny. 

     Having spent several educational weeks as a SCC resident already, I arrive twenty minutes early for the big parking-lot sale and am happy to secure a place near the front of a growing line of shoppers equally eager to purchase discounted wetsuits. Still, I'm nervous. Everybody else probably knows exactly what they want and where it's hanging and what size they are. I glance at the racks of rubber suits and back at the mob. It's like high school. I feel that old awkward sensation of self-consciousness. My excitement is giving way to a childish fear--I imagine two hundred other customers streaming onto the lot with the poise and efficiency of a Mossad strike force, while I pinball about stupidly, glancing off of purposeful shoulders--maybe even being trampled--and effectively missing the ONLY CHANCE I WILL EVER HAVE TO BUY A RUBBER SUIT! 

     So I stand there trying to appear casual and collected, and I formulate a game plan. I've spotted an O'Neill's employee that I met the other day at the outlet store. He's the one who told me about the sale. He might remember me.

After an uncomfortable 15 minutes that I spend quietly freaking out, the store opens and the game is on. I make a beeline for the dude I recognized. "Hey" I say, with a practiced head nod that declares "I'm cool, you're cool and it's way cool to be this cool;" "Hey," he replies with an eyebrow raise that asks, "What just happened?"  

     Crud. I've only rehearsed this as far as the "Hey." "Uhhh...I was in the outlet store the other day, and you told me about this sale and I'm trying to find a wetsuit. What was your name again?"  "Cory," he replies, eyebrow still stuck in "Huh?" mode. We both stand there awkwardly. "Yeah..." he continues finally, "I'm working register this morning. You'll  have to ask one of those guys over there." He gestures vaguely at "those guys." My plan is falling apart. Miraculously, I manage to snag one of "those guys" who, to my surprise, seem to be pin-balling a bit themselves. I form all the ridiculous rubber suit information I have into one sentence and let it fly: "I'm looking for a mutant!" I recite rapidly, "either 4/3 or 3/2 and I think I'm an LS." The last bit is humbling, but I'm desperate. I had researched size charts online beforehand and surmised that my official rubber suit size is a dubious "Large-Short." I comfort myself remembering that there were, in fact, one or two other sizes that sounded even worse and that my height is on the tallest end of the Large-Short continuum. I think numbers are more friendly for sizing. They are generic enough to soften the blow. Descriptive words feel like a measurement AND a value judgement. "Hi, I'm Trent, and I'm a large-short." "Hi, Trent." *snicker*

     For a moment I honestly wonder if anything I just said made any sense. Substitute-Cory stares at me, absorbing the force of my urgency. He probably wonders why I'm so intense. How can he be so nonchalant? Doesn't he realize how important my rubber suit is? Slowly, he drifts along a rack of suits, casually thumbing through tags. Just around the corner, a small but feverish mob has gathered around one section of the rack like little swine-lings on a sow. I can't help but assume that MY rubber suit is at the mercy of that clumsy horde even now. "Hmmm..." I say calmly. "HURRY!!" I'm screaming in my head. Finally fake-Cory saunters closer to the frenzy at the end of the row. "Oh," he says brightly "I remember--they're over HERE!" I hold my breath while he jockeys for position and snatches a rubber suit from the rack. "Nope--wrong size." He disappears into the mayhem again. My heart sinks halfway. A moment later my not-Cory emerges again, hoisting over his head a 4/3-Mutant-rubber-suit sized perfectly for a tallish-large-short-guy. I accept the squishy garment with the fervor and gratitude of a school-girl receiving her rescued kitten from a heroic fireman's arms. A few blurred moments at the cash register and it is over. I have my very own rubber suit--the cool kind that my cool surfer friend wears. I'm a complete noob, but at least I have the right suit. I can hold my head up. Not too high, but tallish-large-short-mutant-guy-high.

     

(Putting on the mutant rubber suit is an adventure in itself, so I'll probably make an entry out of that.) 

(See what I did there?) 

(Wait for it.....)

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