Monthly Round-Up #7

I am currently packing for a vacation I do not want to go on.

Connor has this friend in New York. He’s really kind of fabulous, this friend. I have no doubt he’d be knighted if we did that here in South Carolina. Anytime he calls, Connor trots around the house for the rest of the day, giddy and boyish and high on the adrenaline of being loved so well. I appreciate the guy, and he’s never given me a reason to place him on my ever-expanding shit-list…

…until now.

This friend has decided to pull a group of disparate friends together — none of whom I know from Adam — for the purposes of a long weekend in the Outer Banks to celebrate the nation’s birthday.

You may not know me personally. We haven’t braided each other’s hair late into the night and spilled our beans (yet), but I want you to tell me: Does this sound like a “Lindsey” sort of affair to you? Strangers and beach and patriotism? What the fuck do I have to do with the sun?

Since the season’s first heat wave, my blood sugar as been bananas, my mood has plummeted, and I will sooner grow a tail and start swinging from electrical lines than I will sport a tan.

Before you roll your eyes too hard at my stupid problem, I ask that direct your attention to the right side of my head. There’s a nice, naked line right there. That’s from a bout of skin cancer two years ago. The doctor scooped out a bad mole, and assured me that the hair would grow back. It absolutely did not.

The summer after that, he scooped another one out of my back. Then he advised me to “stop going outside between the hours of 10am-1pm”. And — “if you must brave it” — absolutely wear a long-sleeve shirt, pants, hat, and remain in the shade.

When I asked if I’m allergic to the sun, he laughed and said, “For all intents and purposes.”

The long and short of it is: I am going on this godforsaken beach vacation. For the plot, and for the boy.

Here’s the stuff that I can’t complain about.