Fading.

They weren't ever than crisp, defined, or otherwise impressive, but they're leaving me. The inexorable flood of pastiness cannot be denied. My tan lines are doomed.
  
For a guy who can trace his lineage to some of the palest regions on earth, it passed for a tan. Maybe it was just freckles and early-onset skin cancer blotches holding hands, but at least it wasn't translucent. The lumps of cellulite I try to pass off as muscle looked more defined when sufficiently baked. Not a majestic bronze like George Hamilton or an otherworldly orange like The Donald, it was the best I could pull off after a couple hundred hours under the Mississippi sun.
  
Doesn't matter, because it's all fading away. Tans aren't something that you see a lot of this time of year around here, unless it's on someone returning from Maui. They're the exception rather than the rule. On a pasty-ass guy like me, they're freakishly rare.
  
Like the loss of temporary pigmentation, my form is also fleeing. It was also not natural for me, and I've been slowly regressing to my usual razor-sharp "meh". Peaks only last so long, even horribly timed ones like this. The steady progression of fitness I crafted through months of poorly-planned and executed flatland grinds is quickly crashing down around my ears.
  
Like most things, with the possible exception of plastic grocery bags, all of this has a finite lifespan. Maybe it will come back, leading to better things. Maybe it won't, and I'll turn into a miserable drunk, blubbering about all of the potential I once showed.
  
Hopefully they'll let me keep the tan lines.

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