Thick-Headed, Thin-Skinned Hero in His 15 Minutes of Flame

A study of the modern suburban male would surely discover three traits common to all, which from time to time align in a sort of moronic convergence, a testosterone-induced epiphany. For an example, read on.

The first trait is a tendency to scoff at pain--until, of course, actually subjected to it. Hence, the predilection of those carrying the Y chromosome to engage in such activities as running 26 miles after a dinner of pork steak and martinis or attempting to bench-press their body weight after years of lifting nothing heavier than a can of Foster’s.

At the onset of pain, however, the suburban male undergoes a dramatic transformation from swaggering Viking in Nikes to whimpering, whining puppy. Every female in sight becomes a potential mother figure--comforter, nurse, servant--as the male grows confident that his leg cramps are surely a sign that he will not live till dawn.

The second trait is a deep-seated belief that any job, no matter how complex or labor-intensive, requires “about 15 minutes” to accomplish. This inability to come to grips with time is the reason “just checking a file” on the computer turns into “Uh, honey, I think I erased the hard disk.”

The third trait is the refusal to acknowledge the traits described above as well as the dozen or so others that daily plague the modern suburban male, making him appear, at times, a chump.

I hate to say it, but a convergence of the three has me broiling in the flames of hell.

I began the weekend with a simple task: repair a sagging trellis and plant a few bushes to liven up an otherwise barren deck. A “15-minute” job involving power tools and dirt. What could be finer?

My sensible wife declined invitations to behold her husband drinking deeply of the fountain of manhood and opted instead for the movies.

Her parting words were barely audible above my toolbox rummaging. “Don’t forget to wear sunscreen,” she said. “Silly woman,” thought I. “Sunscreen? I’ll be done in 15 minutes and spend the rest of the day sprawled out in air-conditioned comfort with a brew-ha-ha in one hand and a remote control in the other. No one’s ever been burned by a television screen.

“Dammit, I’m working in the most masculine sense of the word--building stuff, tilling the earth. Betcha that guy in the Diet Coke ad doesn’t wear sunscreen.

“Besides,” I reasoned in a flash of rationality, “if I slather myself up with sun goo, all the dust and junk kicked up by my tornado of productivity will stick to me like a breaded cutlet.”

Scanning my brain for historical precedent, I flipped madly through my mental Rolodex past the day I met Eddie Van Halen, past the 1987 Rose Bowl, to that moment during my overpriced education when a professor said something about our hominid forebears not worrying about sunscreen as they pressed on across the African savanna in their quest for fire, carrion and larger cranial capacity.

OK, so those who survived childhood usually died around 30, but how much damage could a little time in the sun do to a guy with ancestors like those?

According to Dr. Morgan Lindberg, a North Hollywood dermatologist, that was my first mistake.

“There are a lot of sunscreen products available and people should use those,” said Lindberg. “Once you’re burned, there is no way to reverse that. You have to sort of live through it.”

While most of us do apply a liberal coat when we go to the beach, we often forget when doing other things. Like I did, on that 15-minute job that ended up claiming four of the hottest and brightest hours of the day.

The ultraviolet rays flame-broiled my pasty-white back, giving me what feels like the worst sunburn in the annals of medicine.

The burn was so severe that I was physically ill that night, cutting short what I had promised my wife would be an extravagant evening of fine food, overpriced wine and dancing. But not even a New York steak on the Sunset Strip or a table close to Weird Al Yankovich made me feel any better.

This sickness is caused by the body’s inability to maintain its proper temperature, said Dr. Patricia Cavender, a Tarzana dermatologist. “Your skin is hot and inflamed,” she said. “Your body has a harder time maintaining homeostasis.” And you need that homeo stuff. Honest.

But what my wife wanted to know was simpler. “Why didn’t you wear sunscreen?” she demanded.

The best I could muster was a halfhearted “I dunno.”

Cavender helpfully pointed out that free will does not guarantee common sense. “Adults make a lot of choices,” she said. “Some people choose to smoke. Some people who have high cholesterol choose to eat red meat and butter.”

And so, with my back baked the color of grilled salmon, I muddled through the next few days pleading with my wife to hose me down with one or another of the $30 worth of medicinal potions I bought.

“This is your body telling you there is something wrong,” Lindberg said. “That’s what pain is, a warning from your brain telling you to stay out of the heat for a while.”

I got the message. I writhed in agony as the nights wore on, waking my wife at hourly intervals to remind her that I could not sleep. I watched late-night television, but turned it off after tiring of Sally Struthers whining hour after hour about exciting careers in air-conditioning repair.

I thought about whining and how annoying I find it. I congratulated himself for never whining, for being so brave in the face of pain, and figured that maybe next week, I could take apart the air conditioner.

Hey, 15 minutes. Max.