“My beauty secret is absolutely no sun.”

Vivienne Westwood

This will be of no importance to most, some importance to many, and comically interesting to those who are sitting on the decks of their camps staring at algae in the water and in need of a diversion.

Because of something in a statin I’m forced to take, my forearms don’t like the sun. This is strange. My face likes the sun, and my legs don’t seem to care; but my forearms, when exposed to sunlight, get all hot and itchy. So I have to wear long sleeves, preferably dark sleeves, or avoid the sun all together.

Please don’t email or Facebook me your remedies. I brought this matter to my doctor, and he says that when he gets back from fishing with his son, he will think more about it.

In the meantime, he has prescribed an ointment he claims will work. It costs $85 before insurance. I bought it but will keep it in the drawer in the den where I keep the Hope Diamond. I’m thinking it will be cheaper to just wear jackets and avoid the sunlight on my arms.

This condition is particularly irksome, as I have always been fond of my forearms. Forearms are important on men and women. Children and teens don’t care about their forearms. They only want to protect their thumbs, so that they can continue to text the kids next to them in the library, and continue sexting.

As a young man, I was known for my handsome forearms, and so maintained a large wardrobe of expensive polo shirts to expose and highlight them. In California, my forearms were always, as a result of exercise, muscular, tanned things of beauty.

Occasionally a woman, sometimes a man, in the marketplace or on a film set would remark, “Gee, you have awesome forearms,” or “How do you get such attractive forearms? Who is your trainer?”

That’s all changed now. I still work out, and I try to keep my forearms developed in case this annoying condition subsides by itself, or as the result of my doctor’s expensive lotion.

This malady means I will be unable to play golf in tournaments, because I would have to wear a hoodie or windbreaker, instead of those really great-looking Tony Soprano golf shirts.

It also cuts out tennis matches. Fortunately, I don’t play either of those sports — or any sport, for that matter, that requires bare forearms. But in Hollywood, I was lucky to have worked in commercials and often made spots where I was required to pretend to be playing golf or tennis.

I remember a spot I shot for a dry deodorant where I was playing tennis. After we completed the shoot, the nice, young woman director patted me on the back and said,

“You have a lousy backhand, Jimmy, but your forearms film beautifully.” I lived on that for years.

I made commercials where I pushed a lawnmower, rowed a boat, painted a wall, washed a car and gardened. I’m not sure, but I think my well-defined forearms got me those jobs.

My agent daughter informs me that should I return to Hollywood and seek work in the industry, I would have to go back to roles like young lawyers, young doctors, young space aliens that require no exposure. Well, they would be middle-aged doctors, lawyers and space aliens now, but with covered forearms.

This also means I would be cut out of swimming suit commercials and surfing action movies. I seldom got cast in any of those anyway, as I’m afraid of the water, I have preternaturally pale Irish skin, and I never learned to swim.

So I must be content to deal with long sleeves and quiet afternoons lounging under the deck umbrella, whilst sipping a nice wine.

From there I can watch the dappled sunlight on my short-sleeved golfing neighbors, who don’t have anywhere near my great forearms.

In the meantime, if any of you older folks have a similar problem and have found a cheaper solution, I can be found in the skin care aisle at the Hannaford supermarket from 4 to 6. I’m the guy in the raincoat. Advice is welcome.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.

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