I'm under the sun. I'm draped across a broken down lawn chair like an old duvet soaking in the warm rays of resuscitation and resurrection.
It's not a pretty sight, I assure you.
Imagine polka dot Bermuda shorts pulled up far too high on my waist, where they meet a bedraggled Paul Simon concert T-shirt with McDonald's Big Mac grease stains down the left side.
Imagine a dirty, sweat-stained Chicago White Sox hat turned sideways in the worst possible impersonation of a street-wise rapper, and a pair of rhinestone adorned, cat's eye sunglasses that I found at the Goodwill last week.
Imagine a two-day-old splotchy beard because, frankly, I'm too lazy to shave on a regular basis these days.
Imagine mottled, chicken-white legs and arms splayed awkwardly, like the limbs of a CSI corpse, as I try to capture some UV's sans sunscreen.
Imagine a couple of neighbourhood kids peeking through the fence and cracking smart remarks between their gawking giggles.
Oh, it's not a pretty sight, not a pretty sight at all. But here I am ... just me and a flock of birds, which, for some reason, are circling overhead.
