Skip to main content

Sunscreen Fixin'


Jules squirted some sunscreen onto her palms before massaging it into her shoulders and the hard to reach blades of her back.  As the thick, white lotion spread, its scent drifted through the salty ocean air and I recognized it immediately.  Bonne Bell cotton candy lip balm.  I wore it religiously throughout seventh grade, convinced that icy pink was a good look for me.  It was the kind of silvery shade that older, high school girls were wearing.  I had a sparkly pink mini-skirt to match—one that received loads of compliments.  I do not miss the goopy feeling of synthetic gloss smacked across my lips, but the smell, oh God is it delicious!  It’s sinfully sweet, even better than real cotton candy, with an aftertaste of some inscrutable, tingling mint.  After all this time, more than a decade, the scent still moves me and I have to control the urge to reach over and smear Jules’ Ocean Potion’s SPF 30 all over my lips, just for old time’s sake.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Love Come Barefoot

The two of them sit together, pouring over a shared notepad, thinking intently about whatever question is written there.   He in a fleecy-looking blue sweatshirt, she in an equally roomy grey one.   A dainty pair of glasses slides down the slope of her nose and tuck behind locks of frizzy brown hair.   She is plain and unremarkable, unlike the slew of sorority girls gathering across the street, decked in ultra stylish dresses, synched with flattering waistlines. His elbow leans lightly upon her shoulder, draped in some expression of love and friendship.   In their unassuming comfort with each other, love is flaunted best.   I do not know if what they are gazing upon is a physics equation, or a crossword puzzle, but I do think that the rest of us should notice them, in their quiet ways. I do not doubt that he loves her body or her face or any of her feminine attributes.   They all congeal together to make her the dynamic person she is.   But he does not isolate the parts of her, c...

The First Negotiation

The morning light licks the corners of my face, repeatedly, until I consent to opening my eyes. She makes her gradual way across the bed, nudging her most promising sign of hope unto the tossled ivory. The sun is far more gentle than any alarm clock I’ve ever fought, though no less insistent. In such radiant self-giving, how many times can I roll over? So we strike a compromise: I will flip my pillow and “rest” my head, but promise to keep my eyes a flutter, little windows parted slightly for the streams of her still light. Sometimes I up the bargain, telling her that there is really no better way to receive her glory, no greater praise of her warmth, than to surrender consciousness upon her lap, just a little. She will often reply by shedding new light upon the floor, warming a most suggestive path out into the kitchen. My stomach grumbles. Are you sure you don’t want to try freezing time again? I ask. You, me and the sheets, forever curled in our secret morning splendor...

Another Reflection on Breaking-Up

It’s happening again.   One of my good friends is on the other end of a telephone call, holding back tears as she recounts the details of her recent break-up. She is a strong, fiercely independent woman, who has counseled and coached the rest of us through the emotional train wreck of many collective break-ups.   Two years ago, she told me, “Maggi, when you end a relationship, you find yourself waking up every morning to a dull heart-ache perched upon your chest and you really, really believe your world is over.”   You roll yourself out of bed anyway. You make the route cup of coffee.   You stumble into the shower and let the steam swell around you.   If you’re feeling especially lifeless, you drape your hair over your ears, so that the cascade of hot water makes a deep rushing sound, like being swept beneath the sea to a powerfully calm, fetal state of being, where the roar of running water drowns out all the piercing thoughts in your head.   You...