Exposure

I am surprised that everyone didn't get the memo: The Mayo Clinic announced that over the last forty years melanoma, the most dangerous form of skin cancer, has increased by a factor of eight for young women. The study attributes the dramatic rise to an increase in the use of indoor tanning beds. I remember forty years ago. When I was ten, I got one of the worst sunburns of my life while I was snorkeling in Mexico. That was when I was introduced to the magical elixir known as Solarcaine.
The numbing agents in that spray didn't make the pain go away, but it did back it off enough so that I could sleep. And wake again the next day feeling like a lobster that had just been dropped in the pot. Because of my fair-nearly-albino-complexion, I never was much of a tanner. I would invariably get singed once near the beginning of the summer and then spend the next few weeks managing that burn until it was time to start wearing sweaters again. Meanwhile, down the street, my teen-aged pals had begun searching for that perfect tan. They started with Hawaiian Tropic Oil, with an SPF of zero. When the searing properties of that concoction didn't deliver the searing potential of straight up Johnson's Baby Oil. That was a different time.
Today I don't go out without my SPF 90 sunblock and a hat and a personal ozone shield to deflect the harmful rays of the demon sun. And I am completely perplexed by the existence of tanning beds. Sometimes, when I am out cutting the grass or acting as Coach Caven for the day, I get a little color from the rays that squeak through my protective layers, but I can't imagine paying to expose myself to harmful ultraviolet radiation. I'm pretty sure that's what happened to Doctor Bruce Banner.