I Am the Color of Boom

A few weeks ago we bought a new picnic table. I started staining it the following weekend; I managed to get through all the legs and supports before I had to stop and let everything dry. We haven’t had many consecutive days without rain since, for which I am thankful. The grass has been soft and green, the wind is one of my favorite weathers, and who doesn’t like the pattering of rain on a metal roof? However, it’s made for some difficulty when it comes to staining. We don’t have a covered area for working on things, so I was stuck on a tiny tarp in the back yard, at the mercy of an unpredictable Montana spring. This week, for the moment, promises to be one of much grass-killing sunshine, which is plenty of time for everything to dry nicely, so today I spent about four hours in the blazing sun getting the benches and tabletop finished.

I have burned easily all my life. I once spent an entire summer in the shade of a huge pine tree because a doctor said I was allergic to the sun. Apparently, I was only seasonally allergic because I was able to walk to the bus stop and go out for recess just fine when the new school year started. It must have done the trick, I suppose, since I’ve never been allergic again. Nevertheless, I burn when the sun suggests it might be shining on something that’s next to something that’s possibly able to reflect an iota of sunlight onto my skin.

Around the time of last year’s eclipse, I saw someone ask if a picture of the event could hurt their eyes. If a picture of the sun could hurt someone, I would be that someone. Naturally, being “allergic” to the sun, the best thing to do is spend hours outside without sunblock while standing directly to the left of the shade offered by a beautiful blooming black locust tree.

I was wearing a long-sleeve Carhartt shirt, which is one of the most comfortable shirts I’ve ever owned, and a pair of lovely pink latex-free disposable gloves. Not wanting to get the sleeves stained with the stain I was using to stain, I had them pushed/rolled up to a 3/4 sleeve length. Now, if you close your eyes, you won’t be able to read what I’m telling you to picture, so don’t do that. With your eyes open, imagine the fashionable gloves and the 3/4 sleeve Carhartt shirt, and imagine the gap of skin between those two items. That’s where my very obvious burn is located. Fan. Tastic. Oh well. There’s nothing to be done about it now. At least the table is finished, and we can finally start enjoying some outdoor dinners with the bumble bees and horse poop.

Title From:
Polaroid
by Imagine Dragons