About a week ago, I decide that rather than purchase my usual herbal lip balm, I’d go old school and pick up a tube of ChapStick.
We’re talking the original ChapStick: black tube, white type. A man’s lip balm, if there ever was one.
It even applies in a manly way. It’s not smooth and silky like some lip balms. It’s tough and waxy. That’s right, drag this bad boy across your dry, cracked lips and you’ll be leaving a trail of blood. A waxy trail of blood.
And let’s not forget that manly scent. You won’t find any mint essence or tea tree oil bullshit in here. Nah, it smells like petroleum and alcohol, just like it should.
It’s a scent that reminds me of my younger years, relaxing by the pool, feeling the sun slowly warming my skin, drifting off to sleep and waking up two hours later looking like the devil himself.
Somehow I’d manage to peel myself off the vinyl lounge chair and make my way into the house, desperately in need of cool relief: Solarcaine, the first-aid spray for fuck-ups.
I wasn’t as bright as my sister. She took the kitchen timer out with her while she was roasting her body. After about fifteen minutes, she’d turn over and cook the other side. But not before basting herself with cocoa butter, of course.
Back then, we didn’t know any better. Sure, I feared getting a sunburn. But not because it could lead to cancer. No, I knew that if my sister ever saw me walking with my arms out to avoid any friction and my face red with raccoon eyes, it wouldn’t be long before she’d chase me down and SMACK me on the back, creating so much pain that I was momentarily paralyzed.
Yeah, this ChapStick sure does bring back memories. I’m throwing it away tomorrow.