It’s been going on for over a decade now, this attention I draw from strangers regarding the color of my skin. To explain, I have what I generously call a “lily white” complexion. I’ve spent my life the owner of this shade. In my youth, occasionally I would attempt to tan (burn), and fellow sunbathers would raise their hands to protect their eyes from the glare of it.
At a point in my 30s, my face began to take on a reddish hue, almost as if I’d been in the sun for the bulk of my 20s. During periods of extreme heat the ruddy color intensified but never completely dissipated once it appeared. Now, in my 40s, I still exude a pasty shade, but with the permanent addition of this pink, raccoon-like façade that encircles my eyes and shines across my chin, cheeks, and forehead.
Dermatologists have offered a couple of theories as to the cause: Rosacea being one and more likely sun damage. But, whatever the reason, I’m left with something I either attempt to cover with makeup or just ignore. I’ve moved on. Acceptance that this is how I look was the easy part, but understanding the comments of others has been trickier. What do you say when people note something “unusual” about you that stands out as “plain as the nose on your face?”
Periodically, people will proffer observations, “Oh! Have you been skiing?” or “It looks like you’ve gotten some sun there.” I usually respond with a one-answer “no . . .” assuming that that will nip the conversation about it. However, more often what ensues is persistence by the inquisitor, “Well you look like you’ve gotten some sun,” or “Really? Well you look like you’ve been skiing.” I’m ALWAYS mystified at this point.
I was taught that one should politely ignore the oddities of others ― especially obvious ones. Never, for example, ask the morbidly obese woman, “When are you due?” And do not extend index finger toward that large mole on the man’s face and say, “Sir, do you realize you’re sporting a growth shaped like Texas?”
I speak with a mix of frustration and empathy here because I’ve certainly made plenty of social missteps. But often I take these encounters as an opportunity to teach through my remark. If the person presses I think they deserve the honest answer, “This is my skin. I have sun damage. Thank you for your comment.” That response definitely ceases the investigation and I hope makes the point not to mention such things in the future.
A few days ago, I had to give my standard response some consideration. I was standing behind this man at the courtesy counter at the local grocery store. He had a large plastic bag filled with cans. I noted a latex glove on one of his hands and could see that that hand was shaking. I saw his matted hair and dirt smudged skin, and the bandage covering a large sore. He turned to me and smiled revealing his remaining teeth. I politely smiled back. He proceeded, “Looks like you’ve gotten some sun.” I applied my usual response to which he countered, “Looks like you had on your sunglasses out there.” I took a breath. Does this desperate fellow really need my “lesson” on appropriate stranger etiquette?
At that moment I decided to give it up. My red face states it plainly. I’m an avid skier and I’ve just come back from a weekend trip to sunny Vale where I swished and swooped on fine powder at high altitudes wearing my trusty goggles. Don’t believe me? I’ve got the sunburn to prove it.
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