The first fry

It's like a right of passage. It's not really summer until you fry yourself for the first time. There's nothing like a nice coral shade of reddish pink to show for a day in the sun. You'd think that after 20 years of donning a lobster-clad shade as an accessory to a summer dress, I'd learn to apply a little SPF. But I'm not one to follow the norm. It's usually worth it--that first burn, but this year is a little different. My red glow is the aftermath of an afternoon in Waco, Texas, lounging by a 4 ft. deep cloudy pool with a few leftover tortilla chips disintegrating on third tiled step. I tried to avoid the chip infested pool, but after the millionth drop of sweat rolled down my back, and my knee-pits perspired into tear drops down my calf, I could no longer avoid it. In I went, long enough to cool down and avoid whatever disease was lurking under the surface. Out of the water, my forehead already sweaty, I look down at my awkward  shorts tan, notice the start to my first fry of the season, and think about the freedom of what could potentially be my last summer vacation.