Feeling: daring
Listening to: Neko Case - Whip the Blankets
Reading/Watching: The Light Heart (I was clipping along, then it got busy)

So, I own all these tank tops and spaghetti-strap shirts. Because they're cute and nice and cool.

I usually reserve them for the gym, pajamas, or cleaning around the house. Because I'm uncomfortable wearing them in public.

You know how you see a very, very fat person wearing revealing clothing and you think "wow, she should not be wearing that"? Well, I never thought that. I looked at them and said, "wow, you have a lot of courage. I wish I could do that without feeling naked." (Because if they're comfortable, who the hell cares? Look elsewhere if it hurts your eyes.)

Two days ago, I put on a spaghetti-strap shirt and strapless bra (side note: ladies, Frederick's wins the prize for Best Strapless Bra Ever... My double-Ds and I jogged in this sucker), planning on just hanging around the house and wanting to keep cool. Then Yasmin and I wound up walking the two mile round-trip to Samurai Sushi and back for lunch. I dashed out the door without thinking of a coverup (either for modesty or sun protection, ouch), and came back with a rapidly maturing sunburn.

Side note: thirty. frigging. minutes. Is all it took. And my back is blistering. My complexion sucks.

As a result, anything other than a spaghetti-strap top hurts like a mofo, because it rubs on my poor lobstery shoulders, back, chest, and arms. So I've been forced to wear similar tops in public a couple more times.

And no one stared. No one pointed. No children cried. No rocks were thrown, no mobs with pitchforks chased me down carrying a turtleneck sweater. I walked past a mirror and saw a glimpse of a cute, curvy (scorched) redhead, and when I turned to look, I realized it was me. I have decent arms, shoulders. I have decent collarbones. My skin is not perfect, but it's not covered in disfiguring marks or anything, so why am I so embarrassed?

I hereby declare this to be the Summer of Tank Top Rebellion. If I feel like going out on the town with my epidermis showing, I just will (except at work, when I have to have sleeves). Who gives a crap whether I "shouldn't be wearing that"? I'm going to wear it anyway. Maybe by the end of the summer, I'll be over this insecurity, and I might even have enough clustered freckles to make it look a bit like a tan from a distance (a Seurat-pointillism tan, if you will).

The only important thing to remember is SPF 45,000. Because confidence is not worth the melanoma.

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