My mother is 100% Italian. My father, a 100% Irish. My brother got my mother’s olive skin tone: the two of them could sit outside for hours, lathering up in baby oil and bake to a beautiful golden brown. I was the fortunate one (insert sarcastic undertone here) who got my father’s Irish skin. The two of us can’t go to a windy afternoon baseball game without using SPF 45, unless of course, we want to find ourselves covered in sunburn and blisters.
Last summer, I thought I was invincible when it came to the sun. My friends can get tan with SPF 4 or 8, so why couldn’t I? On two various occasions, I felt the effects of not listening to the realistic side of my brain in terms of summer sunshine. I spent a week in June in San Antonio, Texas, where it was roughly 95 degrees every day. As this was a more family-oriented – go out to dinner, do family related things – sunbathing took a back seat, until the last dreaded day, when I thought it was appropriate to lay at the pool, for three solid hours, with nothing – and I mean, not a drop of sunscreen – on my body. Read More »




Just the thought of having to put on a bikini makes me want to move to someplace cold and dark. Maybe someplace like a cave? Instead of coming to terms with the fact that I can’t wear a parka all summer long, I stress out and start having intense cravings for cookies. I completely sabotage any hope for my summer body and instead ingest junk because I can’t bear the thought of a flabby ass. Does this make any sense? NO. IT. DOESN’T.
In my exploits over many summers to the Jersey shore, I have discovered that a day at the beach must not only be viewed as a day of rest, but also as a day of skill and organization in order to be successful.
I have a confession to make now that summer is upon us and the sun is shining every day: When I am really tan, I feel a) skinnier b) more attractive and c) happier.