My white legs are casualties of winter

The other day on my way to Richlands, I called Ann to ask where she'd hid my new summer "uniforms" I bought last week at Sam's. I'd picked up a few pairs of shorts but didn't find them.

I detected a wince in her voice. During the dead quiet at the other end of the line, I swear I heard a collective groan from that Verizon crowd that has been following me everywhere since we switched providers.

Finally, she told me they were in the drawer under the one where my other shorts live.

Maybe I can wear a pair tomorrow. OK, all together now, "Groan!"

I can't help it. It's that time of year as evidenced by our first 80-degree days, and I have exactly the same issues I had last year at this time. To be specific, two issues - both pasty white legs.

It's accepted that men age better than women. They become more distinguished.

Well, overall that may be true, but as for me, my legs have not aged well at all and shouldn't be displayed.

They've retained their metallic glow, but through biological alchemy, have morphed from being bronze to aluminum.

Last year I tried an instant tan from an aerosol can. After spraying it all over my legs, I stepped back for a critical look in the mirror. Yep, they were brown all right. I looked liked a 1953 Mercury painted with primer.

I can't help it. Seasons change.

It's time to switch uniforms for the next half year; therefore I'll again work on my leg color ... or lack thereof.

To that end, I have a new gizmo that may very well do the trick. We'll see.

Ann bought a new lawn/beach chair from QVC. It arrived this week, and I test flew it last week.

At first, it seemed way too complicated - too many tilts and pivots for me.

But once inside the cockpit, it settled down, so it just might be the solution for reintroducing my legs to the sun.

Its best feature is a canopy to shade my face while leaving the rest of my body fully exposed to Mother Nature's sunshine.

When I reread that last sentence, it sounded a little like language from an arrest warrant. As far as I know, exposing my legs isn't yet a crime, although perhaps it should be.

If not, I may have to resort to a tanning salon, but honestly, I don't like the idea of slipping myself into one of those waffle irons, complete with timers.

Good grief, I worry about it popping me onto the floor when I'm "done."

Warm weather always brings great memories of past seasons. My summers growing up were all about sand, music, dancing, fishing, humid nights and warm waters.

Of course there were also bites from sand fleas and mosquitoes, but I even miss them.

Life in those times was oh so very sweet.

Walking across the hot parking lot today reminded me of Chapel Hill. I haven't been back in many years - decades - but if things haven't changed too much, the roofs are speckled with students today.

University rooftops are an excellent place to catch the first strong rays of the season. We'd spread towels on the pitch slope and slather down in baby oil and iodine, guaranteed to produce quick results.

Some things never leave you. Even today, a whiff of Johnson's baby oil conjures up the aroma of warm asphalt shingles and Lloyd Price's voice booming from open windows. "Personality!"

Only in recent years have I had issues about how to tan. As a kid, the process was a picture of simplicity. On the first day at the beach, I burned to a crisp. When the broiled skin sloughed off, a good base remained underneath.

We paid no attention to any of it. Who knew we were buying tickets on the Melanoma Express?

Since I don't want that ticket punched, I regularly go to my "barnacle guy" (dermatologist) in Morehead City to get a critter inspection. I choose my appointment time carefully so afterward we head to the Sanitary Restaurant, my numero uno (let nobody say I'm not politically correct) favorite place to eat anywhere on Earth and neighboring planets. Mmmm, this preventive medical stuff can be delicious.

So I'm ready for my 67th summer. To complete this year's uniform, I ordered new Crocs. I guess with new shoes and new shorts, I might become a 2008 fashion plate. A saucer? OK, a teacup.

Otis Gardner's column appears here each Wednesday.