Sunscreen

"Don't forget to wear sunscreen."

"Mom, I'm just walking to my car to get my phone," I say.

"Well, just put some on your nose so you don't die like Aunt Bell."

(Author's note: Aunt Bell died of breast cancer in 1947, but mom's always been a big-picture person.)

I take the tube of SPF 200 from her soft hand and kiss a dollop of white onto my nose. It makes me cross-eyed.

"Mom, since when did you care about sunscreen? Certainly not when I was a boy. Back then, you used to make me go out and get burned at the beginning of summer to 'get a good base.' Then I'd use aloe vera only until I could transition to vegetable oil. Now, you act like we're vampires."

"This sounds like drugs talking." Her voice breaks.

"Mom, I'm not on drugs. Sometimes I don't know why I stay here."

"I don't either. All you ever talk about is vampires and drugs. It breaks my heart."

"Mom, I know you care about me. And your concern is sweet, but – "

The steel circle of the barrel pokes into my chest and stops my breathing.

"Put on more sunscreen or I'll send your vampire-obsessed heart to be with Aunt Bell."

There is a trickle of blood coming out of her nostril. I can smell the gin as I hear the muzzle blast.

Scene.

Please note that the preceding was only a dramatization, even though it actually happened. Seriously, do you remember back when we didn't worry so much about sunscreen? Back when we were younger and cancer was something that only happened to janitors and relatives whose names you'd only seen in the front of family Bibles?

I know sunscreen is important, but I'm going to punch the next person who pushes a tube of summer-smelling stuff in my face and tells me it's time to reapply only minutes after I drained the last tube. I can't handle the pressure. I'd rather wear a beekeeper outfit while playing beach Frisbee than constantly worry that I "missed a spot."

This summer vacation, I should've punched myself, because I must have reapplied 4 million times. I've internalized all those voices of doom. I couldn't enjoy one moment under our common star without fretting about skin grafts and biopsies. Oh, to be young again.

As kids, we might have hated the weeklong lobster-red feverish skin and the achey, nauseated feeling, but we knew there was a reward. First, we'd attempt to peel the backs off our friends in long snakeskin sheets that would finally shrivel like popped gum and wrap our wrists like Saran Wrap. Then we'd get months of browned, carefree, sunkissed skin. Now we live like vampires and our mothers accuse us of drugs. What the hells?