Sunburn Sunday

I’m just going to come right out and say something that you’ve probably surmised if you’ve been paying attention lately: I’m not currently “on the wagon.” Yes. I know. It’s stupid and bad for me, and I should totally know better. I have no excuse for it, other than I’m a moron and a bit of a hedonist, but that’s just how it is right now. I know you’ll worry, or be disappointed in me, but it’s my liver.

OK. So now I can tell the following story, in which vodka has a starring role.

Yesterday was a beautiful, sunny day, just begging for pool time. At the recent Cross Canadian Ragweed concert, we discovered the wonders of Electric Lemonade, which is a fancy name for lemonade with vodka in it. Tom found pink lemonade flavored vodka at the Liquorette, and we commenced to having some delicious, summery adult beverages while floating lazily in the pool. Unfortunately, we ran out of lemonade before we ran out of pink lemonade vodka, but I creatively solved this problem by serving it over lots of ice and an orange Popsicle. (It wasn’t bad!)

Floating and sunning and drinking and listening to music; it was a lovely afternoon. We were going to head in and make dinner (and get out of the sun), but then Tom decided to call his friend Joe in Virginia, because we hadn’t talked to him in ages. He conducted this lengthy chat draped over his raft in the deep end of the pool. Then I decided I was going to venture off my raft and/or the steps in the shallow end and be all Little Mermaid and swim for a while. By the time we went in, I was full of vodka, and tired from the sun and swimming.

This made for an early evening. Shortly after dinner, I went in and sacked out. ‘Long about 8:30 or so, Tom came in and collapsed on the bed, groaning. When I questioned him regarding the nature of his distress, he informed me that his back was absolutely, totally fried. He’s always reacted badly to too much sun exposure. (Think nausea) Combined with the alcohol, as well as the pasta and garlic bread, he was incredibly ill. I know it was mainly the sunburn, though, because he can way out-drink me, and I wasn’t sick.

I started to be very worried. His feet were like ice, and his feet are never cold. He’s like a furnace, even in the depths of winter. It was almost as if he were shocky or something. I got the heating pad, which I keep by my side of the bed for when my back is bothering me, and put it under his feet. Then I got him ice water, ibuprofen, and socks – which I put on his feetsies myself because I am a spectacularly wonderful wife. I asked him if he’d put any aloe on his burns, and he said on his arms and shoulders. When I asked if it had helped at all, he said, “It sizzled.” Not good. I tended to the dogs, and then returned to bed, where Tom was still groaning in misery.

Then, the poor man had to get up at 3:00 AM to go to his store and do inventory before they opened. I never did get back to sleep after he got up. Clearly, neither of us is feeling 100% today. I called to check on him, and he reported still being sick this morning, and that placing his scorched back against the seat of the car was a whole new adventure in pain. Fortunately, I’m not the least bit hangovery, but I am tired and a bit fuzzy around the edges. My shoulders and upper back are slightly burned, but are fine as long as I don’t rub them or anything stupid like that.

No, not the happiest way to begin the week.

What do we learn from this? First of all, too much of anything is very, very bad. Alcohol, sun, garlic bread, you name it. Overindulgence will come back and bite you in the ass every time. It makes me want to hit the “rewind” button and go back to about 1:30 yesterday afternoon, pour half that vodka down the sink (only half, though, because I am not a fanatic), and either slather Tom with SPF 30 or go inside at least an hour before we did. I’d still eat the pasta and garlic bread, because it was extremely yummy.

Bear in mind, though, that just because I learned those things does not mean I won’t do remarkably similar stupid things. I’m kind of like the four-year-old that is told not to put a Matchbox car in the microwave, but who then puts a Tonka truck in there instead. Who knew the results would be so similar? Neither the four-year-old nor I. It’s possible a future post will mention a disaster involving gin, and you’ll say, “Hey, didn’t you learn your lesson with the whole Vodka Incident?” and I will say, “Duh, no; that was vodka and this is gin. Totally different.”

You can see why Tom has yet to figure out the inner workings of my mind. He shakes his head a lot. But not today, because that would stretch his back muscles a little bit and unleash even more sunburn-related pain.

I predict liberal aloe-application to the region of his back that he can’t reach by himself, and maybe some cool compresses, when I get home. Because I might be a moron, but I’m still a darned fine wife. (Plus, he takes such good care of me when I’m sick, drunk or stupid, so I owe him about a zillion little favors.)

Still, Tom, you can thank me later for leaving out the graphic descriptions of the vomity parts.