Have you ever done something so incredibly stupid, so avoidable, so predictably asinine that you have to wonder how it is you made it this far? How it is that you manage to get your shoes tied in the morning?

I did.

As has been discussed here before (see the self-tanning entry), I have a skin tone that was clearly forged by countless generations sitting in the backs of dank and cave-like pubs, walking across rain-soaked moors and scuttling down cobbled streets under gun metal grey skies. Dracula has more melanin than I do.

But I also live in Los Angeles. And when you live in what is already a tourist destination, friends and family are going to show up at your doorstep with some regularity. And they are going to expect the basics. Hollywood sign, hand prints in the sidewalk, somebody famous and THE BEACH.

We rain-soaked moor decedents have a natural aversion to anything that inspires sun screen and bikinis, but we still try to be good hosts. So this week with a visitor in town, I slathered myself in industrial strength sun screen, pulled on the shorts and the tank top (I can’t go as far as a bikini. I just can’t.) and proceeded to walk to the beach.

Where it was cold. And it was cloudy. And it was windy. The marine layer had blown in and was doing its best to make my Northern European genes feel at home. And it worked. I was lulled into a sense of complacency. I was fooled. I was stupid. I did not reapply my sun screen as directed.

And I am very, very sorry.

Two days later and I am still hot pink. I’m starting to wonder if this will ever heal, and I am getting very cranky. I haven’t had a sunburn like this since my Barbie doll days. And if past experience teaches us anything, my skin will start to peel off in disgusting sheets just in time for my husband’s company party on Thursday.

In the meantime, it hurts. It hurts to put on clothes, it hurts to lie down to go to sleep, it hurts to put my purse over my shoulder. So I’m sitting here in front of my computer looking for American-expats-living-in-Ireland websites. I could learn to like Guinness. I’m sure of it.