I am a reapplier. If one were to do the math, one would likely find that, all told, I lost an entire summer of my youth reapplying my sunscreen while my friends were playing Marco Polo.

I was that child for whom a day trip to a water park was not a wondrous adventure of towering, consequence-free thrill rides, but a devil's bargain to be paid, in full, with three days on the couch, clutching a bottle of aloe vera, like a little sunburnt sot.

I consider myself lucky to have grown up shortly before the time when a pigmentally challenged child like me might have been overprotected into chess competitions and spelling bees for fear of a distant cancer threat. My parents were sensible about the dangers, kept me slathered as best they could in SPF 45, and let me do my thing--field days, soccer, softball, and capture the flag. In my neighborhood, being pasty, skinny, and conspicuously buck-toothed was quite enough to deal with without being relegated to permanent "indoor kid" status while my classmates double-dutched their way through childhood.

I felt twinges of jealousy each summer as my friends got sun-kissed and freckled while I got sun-smacked and fried. My best friend was half-Mexican and half-Italian, a combination that can best be described as  .  .  .  impossibly exotic golden-bronze goddess. Lucky her. Her watch would leave a light mark on her increasingly golden wrist within minutes of the pool's opening weekend. I countered with the perfect crimson outline of three errant fingertips on my shoulder, incurred during an imperfect reapplication. I could not compete.

In elementary school, the problem was simply a practical one in need of a practical solution: How could I maximize my time outside with my more UV-resistant brothers, classmates, and friends? I found a balance, thanks to Coppertone.

Later, I learned my peaked pallor was not just a condition I had to deal with, but something that could affect others and their ability to preserve junior-high memories. The Olan Mills man lived in mortal fear of me. As one of the few white kids at a majority black school for all of my childhood--and, at points, the only white kid on several sports teams--I was the bane of his darkroom existence. In the days before Photoshop could Curve-tool me into the land of the living in post-production, photographers lit the room to accommodate my teammates. The inevitable result was that I, your lowly shooting guard, burst forth from every photo with the white-hot power of a supernova. You can almost see my teammates squinting in the glare.

It was around the same time that I first purchased makeup. I approached the Clinique counter innocently enough, perusing the rows of elegantly named foundations--Ivory, Alabaster, Sand. When the saleswoman put me through the skin-matching motions, I wondered what my color would be. What was the market-approved, poetic name meant to convince me of the unique beauty of my skin? Honeymilk? Porcelain? As it turns out, I am Clinique foundation No. 01, which is elegantly named "Pale." My demographic is apparently so small and inescapably ashen they didn't feel the need to bother with a euphemism for us.

Growing up in the South, where it is a hallmark of feminine beauty to be both preternaturally and permanently tan, the bottle might as well have read, "Not Prom Queen," "Band Nerd," or "Science Fair Blue Ribbon," all of which would have described me with equal accuracy and more creativity.

There were occasions when, through a combination of carelessness and copious outdoor competition, I managed to cross the skin-damage Rubicon, emerging at least jaundiced, if not downright tan. I have saved three pictures from 1999 as a testament, and a reminder that it's probably not worth it.

After all, tanning beds were just this week upgraded to the highest group of cancer risks (surprise!) by the International Agency for Research on Cancer, moved from "probably carcinogenic" to on par with cigarettes and radio-iodines. The announcement undoubtedly sent an army of Hill staffers to search the capital's CVS stores for just the right bronzer for their candidates. I once spent several 10-minute visits inside the lemon-sweat scented confines of a tanning bed to rid myself of a heinous triangular sports-bra tan in preparation for a backless prom dress. It did not work. I will never get those minutes back.

I had come to terms with my paleness long ago, but it's nice to see that there's a bit of a wan renaissance going on to encourage young women who have come after me. Such starlets as Rachel McAdams, Christina Hendricks, and Scarlett Johansson are all considered sexy despite their decidedly unsunny complexions.

When it comes to getting a tan, my advice is: If at first you don't succeed, just give up and reapply. You'll be glad you did.

MARY KATHARINE HAM