The Right to Bare Arms

I wore a tank top in public this weekend. It has been years since I've done so, but I think my arms are decent enough to be seen again.

On Saturday afternoon, I walked to Scoopy's for some frozen custard. (Yes, I thought of President Clinton jogging to Burger King.) It took me 21 minutes to get there and 17 minutes back. (Guess which way I'll walk if I do this again?) Add to that 16 minutes to eat my sweet, creamy goodness, and I was in the sun less than an hour. Still, my shoulders were red that evening. I thought of the song "A Horse with No Name", which contains the line, "After two days in the desert sun, my skin began to turn red." Two days? It took me less than an hour.

On Sunday afternoon, I washed my car -- and I want to keep it looking good for my trip to my mom's next weekend, so I won't be parking it under the trees this week. I had already taken off my shirt and gathered my supplies when a neighbor's girlfriend pulled into the parking space next to where I was going to wash my car. I began pondering that my neighbor is going to think I never wear a shirt. After all, I had my shirt off when her girlfriend came to pick her up, I had my shirt off when the neighbor saw me the last time I washed my car, and I had my shirt off one time when she saw me tending to the plants on my veranda. It's not like I want to show off my belly; it's just the timing of everything.

Oh well, at least I don't resemble the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, like the guy who lives below me.