Sunstain

I've tried to ignore it. I really have. But every morning as I towel off from my bleary-eyed sudsy ritual, I look down at the 2.5" perfectly square brown splotches atop my feet and note that, yes, they're still there: sunstain tattooes inked by the exposure area of my Tevas sandals, during a trip to South Beach to visit my dear friends Cat and Paul.

In February, 2004.

Wtf?

I suppose they would have been better protected had I worn socks. But had I worn socks in sandals, I never would have met any of my Janes, and further I would have had to marinate in a vat of Cartier and Aqua di Gio then immolate myself atop a pyre of GQ and Details magazines while onlookers launch motley-colored Crocs from Speedo slingshots at my broiling, bubbling head.

You know, on principal.

Because I grew up in NY -- and that's where fashion comes from.