My friend Colin suggested that I refer to my skin tone as "alabaster" or "ivory" rather than "pale," "sickly," or just "white." I think he has a valid point. Alabaster sounds like I was birthed from some huge clamshell like Venus, and ivory imparts some sort of exotic colorlessness.
As wonderful as it sounds to be either of those, I sometimes wish I could leave my "Ragin' Caucasian" heritage behind and fit in with the typical American ideal of tan. About once a year I think to myself, "Surely if I got outside for a little bit each day I can build up some sort of color." Of course, each year this proves completely erroneous. And it generally proves completely erroneous in a red, blistering fashion. And then I remember my Scottish heritage and politely decline any attempts at "sunbathing" or the like.
Despite this, I've found a recent benefit of my exact pigmentation. I am invincible. Or at least that's what my enemies would think. Because I just happened to notice today that Band-Aids match my skin perfectly. And all of the sudden, everything made sense. I was like Bruce Willis in "Unbreakable"...or at least my arch nemisis would believe I was.
Imagine the possibilities...We meet on the Utah Salt Flats, and the heat from radiating off the ground gives a Funhouse look to my opponent. We size each other up silently, and then the battle ensues just as quietly. The only sound is the clang of metal on metal; we need no trash talk or witty remarks. The fight rages on for hours, and as my strength wanes my enemy slashes me with his sabre, and I fall to the ground "dead." As he gloats over his "victory," I sneak one of the large Band-Aids over my gaping wound and spring back into the fight. The sheer shock and panic that rushes through his veins would force him to his knees, where I would demand an apology for such shoddy treatment.