halloween realities

A tad chilly but sunny and bright, I made it my mission to properly slack off yesterday afternoon. The day was too perfect to spend inside; coffee and lazy reading at Cafe Fixe were in order.
Rolling home in the late afternoon, caffeinated and fully pleased with my slacking off, I passed a few carved pumpkins on doorsteps. Oh yeah, Saturday is Halloween. I totally forgot about that.

It's no surprise, really. I have ambivalent feelings about Halloween. Candy is great [even if I hardly eat it anymore], and little kids dressed up as superheros or princesses are downright adorable. It gives me an excuse to eat a few kernels of candy corn [come on, it's not that gross], munch on a few handfuls of pumpkin seeds, and contemplate trying to buy a pumpkin before deciding that there's no way I could get it home on my bike.
On the other hand, I can't bring myself to dress up. Or, more accurately, use Halloween as an excuse to take most of my clothes off and scamper around in public in less than what I sleep in. The obvious question of at what age Halloween becomes a fetishized sex fest aside, I don't particularly enjoy seeing classmates in overpriced porn star gear. It's not so much the less than perfect physiques of students who spend too much time poring over casebooks as much as the total lack of originality in sexy nurse outfits. Come on, guys. That shit is so played out.

And when your primary mode of transportation is a bicycle, that severely limits your dressing up/dressing off options, anyway. So while friends made plans to dress up and party downtown, the only thing I was looking forward to was how warm it's supposed to be on Saturday. And how that's perfect for bike rides.
Which is probably for the best as last year, someone dressed up as me in a totally non-ironic "look, I'm that crazy bike girl in knee highs" kind of way. But such social deterrents aside, I'd really just rather spend Halloween getting my legs wrecked on my track bike, or bonking on the Bianchi. That almost sounds like I think I have better things to do than be a normal, social person, doesn't it?

It's not that, really. Halloween's a great holiday; it lets you live a different reality for a night. It's just that, unlike the scantily clad one-night-stands that Halloween at my age should lead to, my different reality is one I'd like to live for longer than a single night.
So I'm not dressing up as a cyclist, as easy as that would be, for Halloween. I'm just going to be one.
[Happy Halloween! And here's a Rapha Scarf Friday for you, even.]

suspecting sunburn

Melanin. It's such a bitch.
I understand the appeal of sun-kissed tans and healthier complexions. But where I come from, halfway across the world, white is beautiful. The desire to maintain or achieve pale, nearly translucent skin has women carrying parasols, applying "whitening" lotions, and wearing long sleeves in the humid, scorching Tokyo summer.
I assume the paleness used to connote status and inclusion into a higher socio-economic class that didn't have to toil in rice paddies. The sheer irony is that I inherited my relatively pale skin tone from my father who grew up in the countryside, not my city-born-and-raised mother. And while my looks might not have my parents' friends complimenting me, they will always mention how "incredibly pale" I am.
Or, perhaps more accurately, how pale I used to be. I was hoping a New England winter cold enough to necessitate biking to school in a down jacket would blast away the color from my skin. Maybe enough hours in the library would wash away the embarrassing tan lines. Maybe that computer monitor tan would counteract the real brownish tinge my skin acquired last summer.

It was all in vain. Yesterday, peeling off my leggings after my third final exam and stepping into shorts for about the third time this year, I realized that my legs are still ridiculously tri-toned. I don't mind the clear line of my shorts tan; that can be worn as a cyclist's badge of pride. It's my propensity to wear knee high socks that's resulted in the ultimately embarrassing: my calves are significantly paler than my thighs.
My legs looking like candy corn, I pedaled home in knee highs, then, despite the bruises scattered over my unshaven legs [I've been busy, okay?], I bit the bullet and pulled on some shorter socks. If I want my legs to look somewhat normal again, my calves are going to have to get some sun. Nevermind the inevitable cycling socks tan; we'll cross that bridge when we get there.

Self-conscious about my multi-colored legs, I was pedaling furiously through Allston and Brighton hoping that the blur of motion will somehow blend all the colors together. I came home, my calves no less stunningly white, smears of chain lube accentuating their lack of color even more.
Meanwhile my thighs, nose, and cheeks are suspiciously rosy red. Maybe I should look into getting a recumbent...

excuses, excuses

This is what I've been doing lately.

I've been buried under piles and piles of papers. I even spent a good five hours of Halloween in the library (but hey, there was candy corn).

And it's been getting cold - maybe a little too cold for hats that don't cover your ears. Which is why I might be posting other stuff besides hats up here. I have lots and lots of ideas...now if only that pile of papers would stop dominating my life...