That has nothing to do with anything, but I just thought I'd remind you.
I woke up to a very messy apartment yesterday. Yesterday, which was Monday. Would you like to know why? It's because I was too busy reading to clean. It all started when I went to the pool and brought Gone Girl with me. I was only a few chapters in, and I wanted to read it so I could get to the rest of my stack. Well. I understand now what people mean when they said it messed with their brain and they could not put it down. I got so into it at the pool that I lost all track of time, and I was outside twice as long as I thought I was. The problem with that is SUNSCREEN. I sprayed some on beforehand, and as long as I reapply or go back in within in an hour, I get a smidge of color, a small explosion of freckles, but no burn. And honestly? I usually don't make it for longer than an hour for one or all of the following reasons:
1. The sun.
2. The heat.
3. The sweat.
4. The sun.
5. Squealing drunk girls in heart-shaped sunglasses.
6. The sun.
7. The occasional screaming child bellowing for someone to get his or her goggles from the bottom of the pool.
8. The sun.
9. The lack of air conditioning.
10. The sun.
If you've seen my skin in person, you understand. I am a befreckled Snow White, like Snow White's irish cousin: full of freckles, a hint of red in the hair, and a temper to match. But let's get back to my story. It was partly cloudy, there was a breeze, and aside from two grown men playing with a Dora the Explorer beach ball, it was calm enough for me to get lost in a book. Which required me to get lost into my vat of aloe later.
It's not that bad of a burn. It's enough to make me a little uncomfortable in the shower, but not enough to require a strapless bra. I have splotchy burns surrounding my bathing suit straps, so, you know, good job spray-on sunscreen! You never know where that stuff lands until you have a polka-dotted chest the next day.
|pale people against summer|
The sunburn isn't the point of this story, though. However I did come him from work yesterday, which was Monday, to discover HIVES on my sunburn. Hence the itching! Sun allergies, so fun!
MY POINT IS, I got so distracted by this book that I accidentally sort of charbroiled a little bit of myself. I came inside and showered and was like I'm gonna clean every inch of this place as soon as I eat that leftover quesadilla, but then I saw the book seducing me on the corner of the couch (read me like one of your French girls, it said to me) and before I knew it I was like Eve taking a bite of the apple in the Garden of Eden, aka my Ikea sectional.
And except to relieve myself of the several iced coffees I pounded, I did not move from the couch until 9:30 pm when I read the last page. I forgot to clean. I forgot to make lasagna! I forgot to put the underwear in the dryer. Bless James all the days of his life, because he finished the laundry for me and then made me mac and cheese so I could continue to figure out what kind of acid Gillian Flynn must've been tripping on. And after I finished the book, I went upstairs and started another one. Because a 400 page psychological thriller apparently wasn't hardcore enough for a Sunday afternoon.
Books are powerful. You can ruin your skin, your family can go hungry, and you'll wake up the next morning without clean underwear if you're not careful. Read responsibly, my friends.