Mexico hates me. More specifically, the Mexican Sun hates me. While I was busy looking at this:
The Mexican Sun was busy doing this:
That is a really weird angle of my body part. The splotchyness travelled up my leg a good bit, to my knee.
Despite the heavy and frequent application of SPF 50 and a liberal application of SPF-SOME-HIGH-NUMBER of Zinc to my parts that are super-susceptible to burny-burny sunrays.
I apparently missed a couple spots. And was rewarded with a giant helping of Take That! From the Mexican Sun.
My nose is scabby and gross, too, and I had it schmeared with the white zinc. My hands are lumpy and bumpy, too, and itchy aging right before my eyes.
There just doesn’t seem to be enough to block that sun from my fragile and delicate Irish Rose skin.
Oh, I sat under a thatched tiki roof for a good part of the day, too. This penetrated during my few short stints in the pretty pretty waters.
I thought I had it this time, Reader. That SPF that I purchased? It went on the skin and stuck like a force field. I glistened with the spray and cracked when I moved.
I was safe in Haiti (Labadee). Barely a tint of color after broiling un-unbrelled on that beach. I had this, I was sure. Made it through Grand Caymen and Jamaica unscathed. But then Cozumel, the last stop. Oh, Cozumel, you treat me so badly. I think we may have to break up.
And this time my towel decided to stay for the tequila and pretty senoritas, and no, it didn’t turn up in my gym shoe.
I left Cozumel a parting gift. And it left me with potential skin cancer. Sort of rude, really. And here all along I was worried about the cartels kidnapping my irresistible self for a hefty ransom. They’d be sadly disappointed that we could only pay them in cats.