white girl problems

Let's talk about my skin for a minute, shall we?  I am what you might call white.  When I am having a "pretty" day (meaning my hair is in its ideal dirty-but-in-a-beachy-way phase, I've put on some concealer and maybe even shaved my legs) I like to think that my skin is a charmingly Irish, alabaster shade; a peaches-and-cream that compliments my sparkly green eyes. On any other day (meaning no makeup, no contacts, hair in a top knot and possibly haven't even shaved my armpits, let alone my legs - hey, I have a baby) I realize that my current complexion falls somewhere between Michael Jackson, and Robert Pattinson's character in Twilight (I don't know his name because I refuse to read those books or see the movies).  Since relocating to Colorado from the South three years ago, my ethnicity has really had a chance to flourish.  The period of time during the year when it's cold outside - and therefore I am pale - has lengthened from three-ish months to like nine and a half.  It snowed in May here last year, okay people?  May.  Which brings me to my current conundrum:  I am visiting home in two weeks. And while there is still snow on the ground here in Fort Collins, it's already shorts and flip flops weather in sunny Florida.  Now, I own shorts;  this is not the problem.  The problem is that there is no way in frozen-over freaking hell I am baring my day-glo legs in a public place, especially in a town where I grew up and am bound to run into a million people I know, who would no doubt walk away thinking Holy Tilda Swinton, she's really let her tan go, because this is how southerners think, in my imagination.  So no, I will not be wearing shorts during my visit.  No thank you.  I will be wearing black skinny jeans of some sort (to say that black skinnies are a staple in my wardrobe is like saying Snookie is kind of into bronzer - I wear them every day) and some variation of top/cardi/blazer, or maybe a t-shirt if I feel like throwing caution to the wind and baring my arms.  I will be hot (temperature-wise) and I'll just have to suffer through it.  At least you won't be able to actually see the sweat dripping down my butt crack (I believe it's called "swamp ass"), unlike the unholy frizz ball my hair morphs into as soon as I step off the plane at the Jacksonville airport, which I swear is humid on the inside.

In my perpetually tan, olive-skinned dreams, however, my trip home would be much cooler and show a lot more leg.  So I'm psyching myself up to be braver (or maybe just go get a spray tan) via some sassy, barenaked leg meat of the dark and light variety.  Hello, Spring!

Le sigh!

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...