I'm not 25 anymore...this I feel more than ever as I suspiciously glance at the little spider legs forming in the v-lines of my eyes. As I begin to cover the freckles that have grown in mass numbers on my face over the years, I stop myself with the realization of their beauty. Tiny specks that had once been referred to as "polka dots", have earned their right to dwell on my face, arms, legs...no, not my butt (Ethan), and deserve respect.How could I cover the very thing that defines me?
How could I take away the part of me that makes me unique?
Am I willing to give up the nick-name I have so rightfully earned...Freckle face?
Closing my compact with a firm click, I vowed to proudly display the beautiful brown speckles that I've inherited from generations of red-heads with porcelain skin. I pledge to never glare at the freckle on my lip again...instead I will love the place she chose to make her home, and gloss her over with shiny color to allow her to shimmer and shine.
No I'm not 25 anymore, but does that really matter when there are more important things to do...like counting freckles?
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