My freckles are not a cute thing to me.(That picture is obviously not me, just in case you were wondering.) They are not the speckled freckles across a model’s face, like Kate Moss, on which they would seem dainty. No, I have big, globby freckles. The ones that cover my entire body (except for where the sun don’t shine) and mush together to form even bigger freckles. In fact, when I was younger I remember being with my sister and seeing a women so covered in freckles like my own, that I wondered when she would be covered so much so that you would no longer see pale skin. This sickened me. I remember we laughed and were absolutely disgusted by the possibility. But what I didn’t realize then is that I am this woman, twenty years earlier in life. I must have thought about it a little, though. My mom still has a Christmas wish list that I wrote to Santa when I was about seven. On my wish list, I wrote “no more freckles” as one of my Christmas presents. My freckles haunt me, cover me, almost like a disease. I dread opening my eyes in the morning if they are near my own skin. I am frightened by it. It almost seems like I have a disease. Unless you have the same condition, it’s hard to relate.
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