The Sunburn
By Morgan Lee Kessler
I’ve nothing better to do than look at my window right now. Sadly, I see the reason why there’s nothing for me to do, especially with my peers. A group of giggling girls stand at the edge of the volleyball court while cooing over the surfer boys. Another girl lets herself be groped by a hormone-filled boy, because she says they’re “in love”. A Blink 182 CD always finds its niche in the background as the Christina Aguilera clones bob their heads accordingly. I suppose I could be there, bobbing my head, if I could accept these rituals as normal. I can’t bring myself to do that.
I’ve always tried to be different. Even when I needed to be accepted, I managed to separate myself as much as possible from that “norm”. This has been prevalent in many facets of my life, but fashion always seems to reign superior; long sleeves year round, ties, no shorts whatsoever, jackets that I buy but never have a chance to wear, scuffed boots and ragged tennis shoes that I believe go with everything, and the tan I’ve let fade to further disassociate myself with Southern California.
I know most people have a hard time understanding why I would do these things; such is the case with my friend Kim. Kim wanted to give me a makeover before school started and I obliged. I admit that I was excited about the prospect of seeing what it’s like to be on the other side. I was going to look normal, even though every conscious fiber of my mind asked me not to. I wanted so much to wear those tight black pants and tank tops that seemed to rule the world. To feel that there was a place for me in this town would somehow fill the loneliness in me.
So, to start the makeover, we headed to Miller’s Outpost where I felt like a foreigner. I shuddered with inadequacy as I looked through the glass doors. I could see what was on the other side, but I prayed it’s just an illusion. When I entered, I became nauseous as a result of so many failed excursions to this store.
It only added to the sickness when Kim asked me what size I am. I told her “10” and she just stared at me blankly. She then asked if I’d ever shopped in a junior section before. My waist swelled as I guessed that sizes didn’t go above a five and giant monsters like me didn’t belong in this store. Well, apparently, they have odd sizes and not even ones. I’ll never use that piece of information again.
After finding the necessary black pants, we headed to the shirts. Tank tops, tank tops, everywhere, and not a size to fit. I pulled the largest one off the rack. Then I found their most modest shirt, and a Mr. Bubble top that capitalizes on my nostalgia.
The store has a horrible western theme and their dressing rooms have (what’s the word for the saloon doors). The ludicrously decorated store makes me want to run far, far away, not buy their clothes. Regardless, I tried on the pants first. About a foot of material bunched around my ankles, then I was told that I wasn’t that short it was just because I had short legs. I took my stumpy legs back into the saloon and tried on the shirts. The “modest” shirt felt like it was bursting at the seams, I didn’t want to buy the Mr. Bubble shirt because it was the selling of my childhood, and the tank top, oh sweet mercy the tank top. It exposed my too-pale arms. Kim made a joke about me coming from some city in the U.S. that never gets any sun. I laugh, but when the joke carries on and spreads to her family making the same joke too, I start to feel like the acquisitions were right and there really is something wrong with me.
I return home later that day, sans new clothes, but with an idea to sunbathe. I had my doubts about this idea, but I managed to choke them down into my subconscious. So I was laying on a towel on our asphalt-covered deck, obscured from the world, in a bathing suit that sat in my dresser for four years, beating myself with thoughts of popularity prostitution, and trying to subdue my boredom by listening to my PJ Harvey CD. The sight was enough to make anyone’s stomach turn, but luckily no one saw. After damaging my skin for an hour and a half, I decided I’ve cooked enough.
I call Kim to inform her what happened, so I can justify for myself that I’ve done the right thing. She responds with glee and tells me that she’s proud, but I don’t feel better. My eyes were still adjusting from the bright sun and I could only imagine how my mind was adjusting. I didn’t tell anyone else about my tan because I was ashamed. How could this seem like such an empty victory?
So, here I am three hours later, lying in secret agony on my bed because of the pain that’s spread across my newly “tanned” body. I want to tell myself that the red blotches are somehow my battle wounds, but they’re really the result of surrender. Needles dance from my neck down to my legs. The once comforting smell of aloe now associates itself with discomfort. I can’t understand why I was so weak that this could happen. All I can do is wonder if a sunburn is what I bought when I sold my principles.