The sun and I, we go way back.
I am a water baby, born into a swimming pool somewhere in California. The consistencies of my youth are remembered by two glorious elements: Sun, and Water.
I found rare silence and solitude in the depths of the pool. How long can you hold your breath? My long dark hair, bleached golden by the Sun, the ends shimmery like fish's tail in the water. My skin, a warm light-roasted coffee color, an exact replica of the caramel skin of my father. My Dad, a sun-worshiper too.
The Water. A mesmerizing, serene blue, which, when uninhabited, was without a ripple in it, allowing me to manipulate its surface however I wanted. I would dive deep into the pool and imagine myself driving a car straight into it. It was probably too shallow to be diving like that. But the danger of the dive excited me.
Now I have no swimming pool, and my doctor says I must avoid the Sun. I want to shake her and say, but the Sun and I are friends, we go way back. I'm a water baby, my father's daughter; burnt like coffee, sweet like caramel. I can't resist the Sun. Its warm, seductive rays. My body vs. my brain. Which one do you think will win?
But this is not 1996. Here, halogen lights replace the Sun, in a windowless doctor's office on floor twenty two. Of course, I say. I'll stay away from it. I'll go to work, get married. Pay my bills, have some kids. Put on sunscreen. Drive safely.
As I'm leaving, the woman at the front desk says something about insurance, and I stare at her like she has three heads before nodding my head dutifully. Because now I'm an adult.
When did everything change? I can't remember anything happening between back then, and right now.
I am a water baby. No water and I am drowning.
