A few weeks ago, Jeff and I went to the beach in Rhode Island, where there are no intentionally pale hipsters and everyone is the color of toast (the doneness varies). The whole skin cancer thing doesn't seem to phase Rhode Islanders, and my grandmother has been known to gasp when she sees me in the summer months, exclaiming in horror "You're so white!" My sister is a big fan of the Mystic Tan and, compared to me, looks of Indian descent, but luckily she wasn't with us at the beach to exacerbate my porcelain pallor. Jeff and I easily won the title of whitest of whiteys, which we had no choice but to flaunt.
For a few years now, we have embraced the jumping pose in a variety of settings: the beach, Jeff's family's farm, our living room. There's something both fun and dynamic about it, and I like to think of it as an ode to Philippe Halsman's Jump Book, which I once picked up in a Cambridge book store and have wanted ever since (hint, hint).
Ironically, I got sunburned at the beach and am now a lightly toasted color that my grandmother would call "healthy."