Posts Tagged ‘hot boys’

Pale, Pasty and Streak-Free

Sunday, May 11th, 2008


We Irish girls are not known for our darker hue. We’re a pale skinned people. Dark hair, light eyes and powder white skin, dusted with freckles (otherwise known as cinnamon on whipped cream) are our trademark.

 

I’m not even pale. I’m verging on translucent. When I ‘tan’, I just go the colour of regular white people. As someone whose circle of friends is made of up a variety of races, all with flesh tones considerably darker than mine, my pastiness has been the butt of many jokes.

 

But that’s OK by me.

 

During my school days, I wanted nothing more than for my skin to attain that warm glow in the summer months. Now I’m quite anti-tan.

 

I’ve tried hard to get a tan the natural way, but my skin is so pale, sunlight just bounces right off me. Or, the sun goes into shock upon seeing my ultra white flesh and burns me in retaliation.

 

I’ve had some mean sunburns in my time. The worst was when I went to Italy and stayed out in the sun, gawking at the gorgeous Italian men for five hours, like an idiot. I was whitest person Italy had ever seen. (Case in point: while lying out on the beach, a concerned old Italian man came over, babbling in his native tongue, pointing at me. My godfather translated for me. He was asking if I was sick. No? Then why was my skin so pale, he asked.) By the end of that day, I looked like a lobster. My back, in particular, had taken a severe sun beating.

 

Back at the apartment, my mother tried every variety of old Irish wives tale to find a sunburn cure. She covered my back with freshly sliced cucumber (which literally cooked on my back), she put wet tea bags on there (they dried out in seconds). Then roughly a gallon of aloe vera was smeared on my back. None of this worked, but it did give me an interesting aroma for the rest of the day. The cure for sunburn? Well, not sitting out in the sweltering heat, gawking at hot Italian man meat for hours would probably help, for starters.

 

I went to Miami for two weeks and sat out on the beach every day and still only managed to acquire about six new freckles. Meanwhile, my best friend who was with me on the trip and is of West Indian descent, managed to go a few shades darker. That’s just pigment hogging!

 

My brother can stand out in the sun for a few minutes and catch a nice tan. He once went to India for six months and came back looking like Ghandi.

 

I’ve wasted enough money on fake tan creams to be able to say, unequivocally; there is no such thing as a streak free one. And I refuse to go through the humiliation of stripping naked and doing one of those spray tans.

 

I don’t do sunbeds because frankly, skin cancer can’t wait to get hold of my white ass, I don’t need to speed up the process.

 

According to oh-so-reliable women’s magazines, I have all the requirements for a diploma in skin cancer:

 

Pale skin; check

Light eyes; check (why is this even a factor in the skin cancer odds? I’m penalized for being cute? Damn me and my fantastic gene pool!)

Moles; check (though thankfully, none of those nasty hairy ones)

More than five sunburns in your life: hells yeah! If Diddy invented the remix, I invented the sunburn.

 

With all these factors considered, I’m not gonna role the dice. No more sitting out on hot summer days, admiring hot boys (though it would really help of hot boys didn’t parade around in wife beaters all bulging biceps etc. Seriously, give a girl a break. I’m trying to avoid skin cancer over here!)

 

So, brace yourselves – as it heats up outside, I’ll be peeling off layers and blinding you all with my alabaster glory. And if you’re near me and you wonder what that smell is, it’s called Eau de Factor 30.

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Enough is Enough

Friday, January 11th, 2008


I’ve had it. I’ve had it with every square inch of city space being plastered with ads for opticians or pizzerias or useless college courses I’ll never take.

 

I hate that every time I open a magazine, there are more ads that subtly convince me I need shit I really don’t need.

 

Damn you, Dolce & Gabbana and your ads for Light Blue Pour Homme. I don’t want to smell like a dude, but I do want to lick the sweat off the glistening chest of the guy in the ad.

 

And screw you American Express, taunting me with all the endless possibilities a credit card can bring. I guess I’m lucky no one will give me credit in order to buy all that useless shit I don’t need.

 

Luxury watch makers – you can kiss it. A Casio does the same thing. And how does some chick with come hither eyes relate to my ability to tell time?

 

Cole Haan – you, well, you hurt me the most. I’m more than familiar with the slipper-like goodness of your shoes. And right now, when I’m nowhere near being able to afford a pair, how dare you advertise in every magazine I read!

 

Tiffany and Co – enough already! ‘Blue is the color of dreams’? Oh really? I’ll have you know that your Tiffany boxes filled with diamondy lovliness haunt me in my nightmares.

 

The stats on exactly how many advertising images we absorb each day are ridiculous. And we’ve become completely oblivious to it.

 

It’s no secret that I’d love to live in Brazil (and not just for the high proportion of hot boys). Aside from all the obvious advantages (climate, architecture, music), Sao Paolo is the world’s first ‘clean city’. Back in January ’07, it banned all outdoor advertising. No golden arches. No nothing. Genius! Thank you Sao Paolo! And they’ve found that since they stripped away all that unnecessary bollocks, the locals have actually become more appreciative of the city itself.

 

I don’t doubt it. I’m sure if I wasn’t bombarded with images of nearly-naked Dolce & Gabbana hot boys, I could focus on other things too.

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