Monday, March 8, 2010


A red-headed girl in school had skin so translucent and pale she looked like a freckled bag of milk. People of my tribe, that is French Canadians who have been picking tomatoes under the Quebec sun for nearly four hundred years, have skin of Teflon, or so I thought. I spent ten seasons as an archeologist, resplendently and effortlessly tanned from the ankles up, my blemish-free skin an enviable mahogany. It’s only lately that I’ve developed a very close relationship with my skin specialist who periodically cuts the precancerous moles off of my body.  At least I wore a hat.

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