Suncream Fails. We’ve all had them. That awful feeling when you or worse still, your baby is more well done than blue. Unfortunately for Thing 1, she has inherited my skin, suffering from the same sun affliction as I do. It doesn’t seem to matter how much sun cream is blathered on (that feeling makes me want to vom) the inherited carrot top, freckle adorned skin we share, turns from blue to pink to scarlet in the blink of an eye.
I was overly confident yesterday, in so much as my patio fixing was going well, it wasn’t raining, the tiles were drying out nicely, I had resisted the urge to Rosé but all whilst my shoulders were burning to an actual crisp. Say what – 35 years young and I have really ouchy sunburn in good old North West England. Only me.
This is less of a parenting fail, and more of a life fail. I mean come on, I really should know better. Its not like Im lacking in experience of this, or I have had sun stroke in Devon or anything…….
I had spent most of the yesterday evening in glorious warmth, wrapped up feeling toasty whilst #pimpingmyblog out on Insta. Its only when I got in bed the truth of the matter erupted. Needless to say I spent most of last night trying to stay motionless on my side to avoid bedsheets that had suddenly turned to sand paper right before my very elbows!
I am concerned my ninja kittens live by the same “It could only happen to me” life motto as whilst I am sat here typing, they are chasing a wasp. Again. They have been warned/stung many times. Please don’t try and catch the wasps you daft bastards, it hurts, you get a fat face and show me your paws for days in the vain hope of more sympathy, less I told you so.
No one is giving me sympathy for my sunburn so why should you pair be clamouring for my affections because you were stupid enough to ignore my advice. Maybe I should stop ignoring my own advice, you know practise what I preach a bit? Crack open the factor 50 and admit there ain’t no way I am going to be a bronzed Amazonian goddess any time soon.
Closer to pale and definitely not interesting with the only hope of achieving a tan being all my freckles joining up in unison and waving on stalks.
Spray tan I hear you say. I have tried this, I look like a mahogany table leg, that then wears off to a bizarre tiger/leopard combo on my calves and bingo wings. And home tanning is just a NO.
Whether it was the time I inadvertently redecorated my parents brand new all-white bathroom to a darling shade of green, or stained brand new bedsheets orange, my home tan fails are epic and endless.
My sunburn and I are going to spend the day feeling very sorry for ourselves. Whilst avoiding the scales. I have been on a mission food and exercise wise to get back to somewhere near toned before the party.
I confidently got on the scales this morning (naked, post wee, glasses off, debating how heavy my weave was and if I could whip it out myself) BUT according the scales, I have failed. You may as well just pass me the pasta, a
large glass bottle of vino, as avoiding it hasn’t made ANY difference…in fact….I’ve put weight ON. Not cool. I hate my scales almost as much as I hate wordpress, but not quite as much as I hate the Insta-algorithms.
Oooo an unnecessary amount of hatred right there Helen. Pipe down and scoff the pasta. Hold off the wine though, its only 9am.
My sunburn and I bid you farewell, until next time