The Great Sun Protection Dilemma: A Comedy of Errors

Every summer, I find myself standing in the sunscreen aisle of the local drugstore, paralyzed by indecision. There are more SPF numbers than there are winning lottery combinations. SPF 15? SPF 30? SPF 50? I’m pretty sure I saw SPF 1000 once, which I assume is intended for vampires attempting a beach vacation. Then there’s UPF clothing, which promises to shield me from the sun while making me look like a beekeeper in witness protection.

The experts say sun damage is serious business. My dermatologist practically faints if I mention “just a quick walk outside” without protection. Reactive skin care is expensive—ask me how I know. I’ve had three skin cancers carved off my scalp and face. The scars make me look like I lost a knife fight with a very polite chef. So yes, I take sun protection seriously… even if my methods are slightly ridiculous.

The easiest solution? Avoid the sun entirely. Simple! Just live like a nocturnal raccoon. Unfortunately, society refuses to accommodate my vampire lifestyle. Outdoor events still occur before sunset. Early morning and late evening activities are best—good advice from the wise old fly tier who also apparently moonlights as my life coach. The sun between 9 a.m. and 6 p.m. is an angry ball of fire, and I approach it with the respect it deserves: slathered in zinc, wearing sunglasses that make me look like a discount superhero.

Let’s talk fashion. Baseball caps? Useless. Wide-brim hats? Essential. I own at least six that have all faded to the color of despair, which probably means they’ve retired from active duty. I keep them anyway because throwing them out feels like admitting defeat. Meanwhile, UPF clothing degrades with sunlight, sweat, and washing. So eventually I’m just cosplaying as a sun-safe adventurer while secretly wearing rags that offer the UV protection of tissue paper.

And of course, there’s the nose and ears—prime real estate for the sun’s mischief. Zinc is my war paint. I apply it generously, which leaves me looking like an off-brand lifeguard who got lost on the way to the beach. But hey, I’d rather look like a decorative garden gnome than give my dermatologist another souvenir to remove.

In conclusion: The sun is both friend and foe. It gives us vitamin D and crippling anxiety. My strategy is simple: cover everything, embrace early mornings and late evenings, and accept that I will never look cool in a wide-brimmed hat. But I will keep my ears, thank you very much.

THE RULES

I’ve come to a groundbreaking conclusion about humanity, one that will surely earn me a Nobel Prize in Sociology, or at least a free latte: there are exactly two types of people in this world.

Type A: The Rule Followers. These are the proud, clipboard-carrying souls who read every instruction manual from cover to cover before so much as opening the toolbox. If IKEA made a 400-page novel about their bookshelf, they’d read it twice, annotate the margins, and probably host a book club to discuss Chapter 7: “Proper Use of the Allen Wrench.” Type A folks lay out every screw, washer, and tiny wooden dowel in neat little rows, like they’re preparing for a military inspection. They are the human embodiment of, “measure twice, cut once.”

Then there’s Type B: The Rebels. They look at instructions the way cats look at vacuum cleaners—with suspicion and mild disdain. Why would they read a manual when they have instincts? Directions are for the weak, and besides, how hard could “assemble crib” really be? These are the people who will proudly build the thing backwards, discover they have 47 leftover screws, and call it “modern art.”

Within Type B lies a very special subset: The Improvisational Engineers. These are the folks who assemble first, panic later. They muddle through like confident toddlers with a new puzzle, and when the final product wobbles like a baby giraffe on roller skates, they declare it “good enough.” If it collapses—say, hypothetically, a crib in which an actual baby had been intended to nap—they immediately blame the manufacturer. After all, it couldn’t possibly be user error. 

The world, my friends, is divided cleanly down this line. Type A versus Type B. Manuals versus mayhem. And if you’re wondering which type you are, ask yourself one simple question: Did you read this essay’s instructions first?