Just Sleeves

15 years ago I had a prophecy that today—hear ye, hear ye!— has come true.

Like mystics of old, I foresaw that the collective needed ... a new product. You may be thinking, “Really? We need another product like the Kardashians need another selfie.”

But hold on: what if I told you I had something that could reverse farmer’s tan. And that this miracle product worked, not just for farmers, but for anyone with skin?

It is called Just Sleeves. I have heavily trademarked it. Can you believe, in a scientific age of Waymos and face transplants, this hasn’t been monetized?

Last week, LA had a botox-melting heat wave. Women’s faces looked like the drippy sides of candles—my lips had drifted to my chin by noon. It was a bonafide dog-tongue-out week. A toupee slip-in-slide week. Ok, you get it.

The only reprieve came from the cafe’s A/C. I gloried in it without remorse. And so did sunny Mr. Real Estate. He probably told me his name before, but the sound waves associated with names bend around me and never return. Same as when people start reciting recipes to me. Or board game rules. I HEAR NOTHING.

We’d said hey a few times—he’s a weekender. Saturdays and Sundays are his coffee days. I call these folks amateurs. The world calls them employed. But here it was a toasty Sunday, and I’m sitting on my perch in a romper.

“Hey, you going to the beach?” Mr. Real Estate asks pointing to the romper.

“Nope, are YOU?” I asked, pointing to his linen shorts with abstract conch shells and starfish.

“No, but look—they’re kinda see-through!” he exclaimed. I think he was excited that they’re breathable. Yet a professional man I barely know saying this loudly in public was… disarmingly delightful. I found myself getting excited about his shorts with him, because glee is contagious.

Then, in an odd effort to bend back the glee boomerang, I presented my forearms to him.

“Look how white I am!” I said. Like I had just seen my skin for the first time.

“Wow!” he said.

“I can’t go to the beach!” I connected the dots for him.

“I should think not!” he agreed.

“But I can go to ‘Night Beach’,” I clarified with air quotes.

“What is night beach?” he asked.

“It is when you go to the beach at night,” I said. Bet he didn’t see that one coming.

“Ahhhh,” he said. “You know what you could do?” he asked.

“What?” I said.

“You can get a long-sleeved shirt but cut it off here,” and he motioned to his bicep. So when you’re driving or on a walk, you don’t burn, and it’s better than sunblock.”

OMG, he’s talking about JUST SLEEVES, I thought. But I didn’t want to steal his thunder that I had already thought about that 15 years ago. No one likes a braggart. So I acted like it was the freshest of solutions to my flammability.

“Hmmm, that’s a great idea,” I said. “I bet that could also reverse farmer tan for people!”

“You’re right!” he beamed. If someone were to have said, “By Jove,” in this conversation, this would have been the moment.

He was headed out to the patio with his friend, but fist-bumped my blazing white knuckles, winked, and said he’d bring me a sleeve some weekend.

“Enjoy your shorts!” I said.

Now I’m not sure how most of your goodbyes go, but “I’ll bring you a sleeve” and “Enjoy your shorts” was a first for me. There are plenty of bad ways to end a coffeeshop interaction—slapping a drink out of someone’s hand, for example. Or whispering, “I’ll see you at home,” to someone you don’t live with. But there are also plenty of good ways to end one. And this might have been my favorite so far.

Enjoy your shorts, friends!

P.S. - My friends produced this crazy documentary on AI that comes to a theater near you this weekend! It’ll open so many conversations for you.

P.P.S. - And speaking of AI… I am manifesting my next job title: Organic Intelligence Officer. My mission is to prevent hostile robot takeovers :). And to bring snacks. Here’s the job description…