ThinkThought #23 : The Science of Sun

Starting today, I have decided to give up on modern science. While it may be true that I was never truly in touch with the Einsteinian methods and practices regarding the workings of our world, seeing as how the extent of my knowledge regarding the "science of life" is restricted to watering bean plants with coffee and calling it a science fair (I got an A+), I still feel as though this is a major step that I have decided to take. You may ask why it is that I would decide to take this proverbial leap of faith into the unknown, and I would like to tell you that it has come from hours of thought and meditation within some sort of spiritual enlightened state, however, in reality, the sole reason is that it is May 29 and I'm still as pasty as Macaulay Culkin's agoraphobic red-headed half brother.

Tell me how we are on the brink of summer (I can almost smell the sweat dripping out from under a Wreck beach nudist's sarong), but I have yet to have a single opportunity to baste in my own perspiration until I'm golden brown and pretend I'm loving every minute of it. No child has kicked sand in my face, all the while screaming "BEACH MONSTER" as his nanny chases him past a throng of marginally affected, but seemingly entirely perturbed, bikini-clad Earls hostesses (you know exactly who I'm talking about). I have not smelled the delicate waft of BC bud coming from a group of insubordinate teenagers wearing Iron Maiden t-shirts and ripped jeans, rolled up just past the ankle (like they want to ruin the creamy complexion that they've worked so hard to upkeep whilst brooding in their parent's basements), who are rebelling against not only their parents but SOCIETY TOO MAN by sharing a joint on the beach. And, perhaps most importantly, I have not seen what appears to be a small leather pouch containing a single golf ball swinging in the breeze, although on second glance, realizing its simply an elderly testicle attempting to emigrate from the ill-fitting Speedo that it has so begrudgingly called it's moist home.

Instead, I've been privy to countless days of rain and squalor, grey skies, a brisk wind, and just a handful of days that can only be described by your mother, who somehow finds the silver lining in every overcast Vancouver cloud ("Well at least we can be grateful it's not raining!"), at which point you would toss her a "Pessimism rules my life" side eye before dragging your feet to your room and listening to Band of Horses while contemplating how much Vancouver sucks, save for the Canucks being in the playoffs (you only watch the games because you want to get drunk).

It's been that kind of summer.

For some reason, I feel that by abandoning all good judgement, and telling Science that I cheated on it and had a lovechild with a 40 something sexy-pirate latina housekeeper named Mildred, and that our relationship was simply based on true lies, thus the reason for terminating it (well if that wasn't the most unoriginal, embarrassing sentence I've ever written), I will not only be validated, but there also won't be weather forecasters telling me that "Summer is almost here!" before projecting seven days of light showers and below-average temperatures. The weather will have no choice but to cheer up! In the most round about way, I am quite certain that that makes sense.

On second thought, I don't even think the weather (wo)man on the television is even a scientist. They might just be failed actors with a keen eye for green screen graphics and President's Choice-grade haircuts. I feel cheated.

So I'm sorry Mr. Brooks. Despite your best attempts at convincing me of the valours of science in Grade 11 Biology, it's time I ended this relationship once and for all. Now will you please excuse me while I go melanomize myself.