Ever so many years ago, when jeans were tight enough to double as tourniquets and we feathered our hair within an inch of its beer-highlighted, mayo-softened life, we revered the tan.
What do you mean, who's "we"?
Why, the winter-weary, bikini-wearing, commercial-believing people of my youth, of course!
Proof of my personal devotion can be summed up with the visual of me laying out, in a swimsuit, in the snow, early in April in order to have some sort of color other than "see-through" in time for prom.
Sure, I'm White. What of it?
By the way, I've never cared for the word "Caucasian" and have boycotted answering questions that use that word for years now. Am I Caucasian? No. I'm a perfectly American mix of Czech, Danish, Norwegian, Swiss, Scot, and Irish.
If there's more, no one's talking about it.
I've never cared for my color, though, skin-pigment wise. Maybe it was a 70s thing, but I was raised to believe that "brown" was "healthy". Why retain fish-belly white on the body-side of your arms when, with a little time and a little manipulation, they can have a healthy tan?
I no longer have the time to "lay out", nor do I have the money to pay for a tanning salon; and so I've just recently come to the conclusion that I am White and there is nothing I can do about it.
With that in mind, I am embracing my freckled heritage.
Celtic clog dancing? Why not. Truly rotting cheeses? Been doing that for years, anyway. Rampant beer drinking? Hmmm.
Perhaps I am not so far from being comfortable with my white-ness after all.
That's right -- with apologies to Justin Timberlake, I'm bringing Whitey back.
3 hours ago