T has been talking about his tan lines.
You remember T, don’t you? The man who developed a lawn fixation, a man who suspects his socks of sedition, the man who believes he may have discovered the home-made pancake?
The man who abandoned Minnesota for Florida?
“You should see me. I am so beautiful,” he says to me recently. “I am the color of brown that makes women swoon.”
“Women are falling over?”
“On to their backs,” he chuckles.
“You haven’t been making them those pancakes, have you?”
“Hey! We don’t talk like that,” he says. There is a slight pause in the conversation. “Seriously, you’d have thought that the alcohol would’ve cooked out…”
“T!” I shout.
“Nah,” he says, laughing. “I’ve been cleared of all charges. Those pancakes are completely on the up and up.”
There is another pause as we both consider the possibility of drugged pancakes.
“Still,” he says. “I am a deep, dark brown.”
“Dude,” I say. “I swear that’s all you talk about. You and your tanned hide. What’s up with you, Mr. Just Another Day in Paradise? Why do you hate Whitey?”
He chokes, laughing. “What?!”
“Since you moved to Florida a little over a year ago, that’s all you talk about is how brown you are. Seriously, man. Embrace your Caucasian-ness.”
“Oh, you Yankees,” he chortles. “Always hatin’ on the brown-skinned man.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, irritably. “You only wish your legs were white and pink and blue. Who’s the bigger patriot, huh? Who’s got the pink white and blue legs? Me, that’s who. I’m practically a walking flag up here.”
“Been there, done that,” he says generously. His voice has taken on a paternal tone, as if addressing someone who has refused to see the light despite having his big brown finger point the way.
“Did you get my picture?” he asks. “The one of my feet?”
“Is that what that is? I thought it was a picture of a hobbit trying on a saddle shoe.”
T sighs. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he says sorrowfully.
“It’s all I got,” I mutter.
“Why you little…” he threatens.
“Why I oughta…” I counter.
The conversation again goes quiet.
It’s hard to argue with a man who will be swimming in the ocean later in the day.
But I keep at it.
26 comments:
A walking flag!
He has ugly feet. There, did that make you feel better?
You wrote in an earlier post about Mr. T:
"But I grew up on the road, and I know that despite our fondest wishes, there are points in our lives from where we can look back and see the very moment things changed."
And the sound you hear is of the truth of that statement resonating with me.
Holding up my pink white and blue foot in solidarity for ya, Pearl.
That conversation sounded dangerously similar to your talks with Mary. It would be interesting to get the three of you together, even if only in your mind (and in a post), Pearl!
Hari Om
Oh yes - and complete with polka dots. Donchya just love a celtic skin?
Hope the sun shines for you this weekend. Tan-worthy maybe not, but at least let it show its face. YAM xx
My only consolation is that I could stand on a Florida beach forever and never turn brown. It is not in my DNA.
I wore a short skirt, bare legs, and sandals yesterday, and sat on a garden chair for - oh! all of ten minutes. In mid-Wales.
And this morning the sky was blue enough, the sun bright enough, (and the wind had dropped enough) to do some actual gardening. The Husband dragged the mower across the back lawn. I planted out some recent purchases and sowed some seeds.
But no strap marks yet. I'll tell you when, if you promise not to yell at me! Meanwhile, there are freckles...
Mother calls me from HI - "I wanted to tell you how cold it's been today! We have the tradewinds in, and I had to put on SOCKS, Kana, and a sweater!"
I interrupt, knowing where this is headed, and therefore wanting to head it off at the pass - "What's the temperature, Mom?"
In a tone as if to portent some great omen - "I think it's in the seventies. Maybe even THE SIXTIES."
YOU'RE in the Sixties, Mom. Go for another swim at the beach, ya hippie. You know nothing of my pain.
I embrace my Caucasian-ness all the time. Not that I have any choice in the matter, of course.
Yeah, why you northerners always hatin' on the brown man?
Though I am not the chestnut color I once was.... sadly.
I could be mistaken, but are those flip-flop lines? (We used to call them thongs when I was a kid, but not these days...)
Sioux pre-empted my spiel on the thong lines being a Caucasian give away.
May it's a photo-shopped tan... hmmmm
I have to side with T. I live in Canada and tan lines are fascinating. I wear a watch in summer just to see how dark I am getting.
I am 63 years old and have perfect toenails. It's all I ever wanted. What is this "Florida"?
T discovered the home made pancake?? Pfft! My kitchen has been churning out home made pancakes for 40 years.
My arms are browner than his feet, but my legs are brown and blue, what flag is that?
Neither my arms nor my feet will EVER get that brown. Unless I discover the reverse Michael Jackson treatment of course.
Great one liners! You should remind him that he has mosquitoes biting his butt all year down there...
Take your pink, white and blue flags/legs down there and kick sand at him.
It is cruel and unusual punishment for someone in Florida to harass someone in Minnesota while there's still snow on the ground!
Snakes. Alligators. Snails.
http://theweek.com/article/index/242725/the-giant-rat-sized-snails-devouring-south-florida
We are better off in Minnesota, Pearl. The sun will come out and all we will have to deal with are the mosquitoes.
Tanning leads to cancer, ages your skin faster, and give you leather-like skin. I prefer being a pale face!!!
My daughter doesn't do feet she will not go near them with a badge pole......lol not that she would know what a barge pole.......lol
I came back north too soon. My brown is hidden under so many layers of clothes it's invisible. Waiting for spring in southern Ontario.
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