And with that, comes my seasonal warning. From growing up in Rockway Beach, baby-oil and iodine slicked, a reflector intensifying the sunlight on my face, I know have to go to the dermatologist every three months to check for basil cells. While others happily get botox, I get burned or cut. Not fun. When I read about people going in the tanning booths, I suck in my breath. Here's a photo my daughter-in-law took of me with my parasol, which I must use because sunscreen isn't enough.
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Thanks, Rochelle, from a former New Jersey-ite who slithered along with mineral oil and loved the smell of my toasted skin.
Now transplanted to the ever-brilliant sun of Los Angeles, on every sidewalk I shade my face with hat, hand, or book. My pathway shifts from one shade clump to the next, and the dermatologist sees me often.
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