Superman, Sundaes, and Sunscreen for Albinos

 I've just recently come to terms with the fact that my entire summer personality is just SPF in human form. In summer, some people live for beach trips, barbecues, and taking 87 pictures of their feet in the sand next to someone else's feet in the sand. Caption: 

#GuessTheCelebrityToe.

Not this guy. I live for the lotion aisle at the drugstore, where I go to compare numbers like I'm negotiating for the best mortgage rate. SPF 30? Weak. SPF 50? Participation trophy for future sunburn.

SPF 100? That's the one I'm looking for, but I'm still going to squint at it like the bottle contains the hidden secrets to cracking an ancient mystery about what really happened to the Aztecs. Hint: The sun got 'em.

I don't tan. In fact, I only have two different tones to my skin at any time of year. And there's no in-between. I go from "pale winter corpse" to "emergency room lobster boil" in record time.

Superman might get his powers from the sun, but it gives me radioactive hives. He flies into space and recharges like a solar panel. I step outside for more than 11 minutes and I'm Googling "Is blistering in your eyeballs normal?"

So yes, I wear sunscreen. A lot of it. The kind of a lot where passersby wonder if I'm sweating coconut and shea water or recently fell into a vat of Vaseline.

Sunscreen as a Lifestyle

When you wear as much as I need to, sunscreen becomes less protection and more like personal identity. I have to reapply so often that I don't wear sunscreen by mid-summer. I can boast like a Marvel character, "I am sunscreen."

And Ironman thought he was slick.

My pores are pretty much their own little pump bottles at this point, and man, are there side effects:

• I look oiled up enough to apply for a position at Chippendales
• People used to ask me to reach items that were high up because I'm tall. Now they ask me to fetch things that fell into tight spaces because I'm lubricated. 
• I have to hover over the toilet seat so I don't slide off.
• I leave a trail. Garden slug-like, but with a faint aroma of tropical fruit. People don't even ask anymore.

Meanwhile, Superman Eats Ice Cream

Now, I know you're thinking, "Hey, rice-paper skin man should just stay indoors, probably." Good idea, but not an option. Summer insists I get involved. There's always an event. A barbecue, a beach day, a hike where someone says, "It's only 3 kilometers" but they fail to mention that's just the vertical part.

And if we're honest with ourselves, we'd have to admit that the biggest reason any of us mayo-skinners brave the sun at all is for the reward.

Ice cream. 

Specifically in my case, sundaes so loaded with toppings they look like sprinkles and syrup dissolved a sugar mountain and caused a landslide of epically yummy proportions.

Superman himself couldn't resist a triple-scoop fudge sundae with extra peanuts and cocoa juice on a hot August afternoon; cape flapping in the warm breeze as he loses himself to the sweet treat in the middle of the Dairy Queen parking lot.

But while he's out there metabolizing the combination of dairy and sunlight like a god, I'm wondering how many more minutes I can sit on the patio before I spontaneously combust. If I was lactose intolerant, I'd be waiting for the ignition that sent me hurling for Alpha Centauri.

Superman eats ice cream and fights Lex Luthor. I cautiously inhale a small cup of Dutch fudge and battle UV index alerts.

Yet another thing in my life that's just not fair.

Sunscreen Can Be a Social Problem

It's really awkward to explain my sunscreen habits when people notice them. They'll ask casually: "You just reapplied sunscreen. Again. That's the sixth time this afternoon. Are you... ok?"

I'm great! Totally fine. I just have to layer up until I look like a human glazed danish or else I'll end up a lit walking matchstick. That's how I went bald in the first place.

I don't like having to explain over and over again that I have the skin tone of skim milk with the toughness of wet Kleenex. So, instead I sit on the beach and joke, "Haha, yeah. I'm greasier than a funnel cake at the fall fair." Which is funny until my son throws sand on me and calls it granulated sugar, and I'm now a Dad doughnut.

Things I've Learned as a Walking Bottle of SPF

1. Everything I touch becomes sticky. Phones, steering wheels, doorknobs, lake water. I leave behind perfect hand prints everywhere for people to find. It's like the world's worst oily scavenger hunt.

2. Sand adheres permanently. When we go for a swim at the beach, I don't just get a little sandy, I meld with it. By the time we walk back to the car, my legs look like breaded chicken schnitzels.

3. Reapplying in public makes me a spectator sport. There's no discreet way to squirt lotion onto my palms and smear it onto my back while innocent people are trying to eat hot dogs. To get full coverage I have to contort myself into what resembles a giant pretzel on a stick wearing a swimsuit and crocs.

4. Hats are not optional. If I don't wear a wide-brimmed hat, I burn in geometric pattens. If I do wear one, my ears, neck and face are safe but the rest of me not so much. By the end of the day I'm an east coast lighthouse.

A Superpower in It's Own Right

Maybe my sunscreen addiction is a kind of superpower. Not the kind of superpower that saves women in peril and the world from alien domination, but the kind that amuses the neighbor's dogs and confuses raccoons. 

There could be a use for that.

Superman can fly, and Batman can brood until criminals get so depressed they turn themselves in for an uplifting change of scenery, but only I can walk into any room and make it smell overpoweringly like Coppertone.

Sasquatch remains elusive. I leave a trail of glistening evidence wherever I go. Poor Dave probably gets blamed for it. Perhaps because I wrote "Dave was here," using only my fingers on all the office furniture. Sorry, Dave.

At least I'm safe. At least so far this summer, I'm not crispy. At least dermatologists would give me a high-five if doing so wouldn't spray the surroundings with non-essential oils.

The Sundae at the End of It All

Here's my summer advice:

Be Superman if you want. Strong, invincible, tan. The guy who's only weakness is an interstellar rock. Or stepping on a pebble barefoot on the beach.

Chase Sasquatch if you must: that mythical "perfect beach body" or the epic "endless summer adventure" nobody ever gets 100% right.

And if you're as pasty as me? Embrace the Dave-hood. Be the scapegoat for the sun's ire. Be the only thing at the barbecue that's greasier than the hamburgers. Be the beachside distraction who's dancing to the Bee Gees while applying the seventh layer.

At least you'll have a chance to outlive them all with your nearly transparent and suspiciously wrinkle-free skin.

And remember, nothing pairs better with a gallon of sunscreen than a giant hot fudge sundae. Just don't try to hold the spoon, it's a slippery slope.