... About Being Easy

Here's something you may not know about me, Reader: I'm kinda pasty. My skin is very fair and freckly and doesn't tan at all. I blame my British roots. It's cloudy over there, so we're not accustomed to prolonged sun exposure.

It doesn't really bother me. I don't mind being Whitey McWhiterson. What I mind is when perfect strangers walk up to me and ask, "Are you feeling alright? You look a little pale." Usually this problem goes away during the summer - I get just enough sun that my skin takes on a kind of off-white hue which most of society deems somewhat acceptable. Unfortunately, my "tan" is inconsistent at best. My fair British skin is too stubborn to settle on a middle ground - it's either the white cliffs of Dover or Redcoat crimson.

Which is why when I get a sunburn my legs end up looking like a Jackson Pollack painting.

Remember last year when I went up to Jacey's cabin at Bear Lake and came back with stripes on my shins? Yeah, this year was not quite as visually entertaining, but splotchy and confusing all the same. We spent only two hours at the lake, and I used waterproof SPF 50, and yet somehow the contrast of red on white against my legs is reminiscent of a Rorschach test.

I should be studied.

Despite the awkward sunburn, it was fun to get away for the weekend, do something a little different from the norm. I've gone up to the cabin for Jacey's birthday every June for the last three years - it's a nice little tradition. This year it was girls-only, though not on purpose. All the boys Jacey invited ended up bailing out for one reason or another. And while it's fun to have a girls' night every now and then, I've been having nothing BUT girls' nights for quite some time now. So I was a bit disappointed. I miss hanging out with guys.

I said something to Bailey about that, how it would be just that much more fun if there were boys going. Her response? "You're kind of a slut." I then told her how a few of my old roommates down at Snow thought the same thing just because I - dun dun dun! - held hands with a boy I didn't even like. "Well that just goes from slut to easy," Bailey replied. The conversation quickly evolved into a discussion about Richard Simmons (you have to get up pretty early to keep up with our wit), but you get the basic premise, Reader. I am a harlot. A jezebel. A streetwalking strumpet.

You agree with them, don't you, Reader? You're taking sides with my roommates, team members, sister, friends, and other associations who have called me skanky! Well, you're wrong, Reader. Dead wrong. Normally I would just brush off those kind of asinine allegations. But because it seems to be a recurring theme, my trampiness, I thought it deserved a little bit of inner reflection.

So I started making a mental list of my "harlot-y indiscretions." And while compiling this list I found nothing major - just a little snuggling here, a little spooning there. Sure, I've been known to flirt with, cuddle, even kiss boys that I had no romantic feelings for whatsoever. But that hardly justifies the scarlett letter that's been pinned to my chest. I like boys! I like boys even when they're not boys that I like! Is there something so wrong with that? I think not.

So I take great umbrage at your accusations, Reader. I think the real reason you're lashing out at me is because you have some sort of underlying psychological issue with men. Maybe we need to figure out what's really bothering you. Freud would have a field day with this one. We should just lay you down on the couch and discuss this.

So here, Reader: look at my leg and tell me what you see.