Legend has it my mom watched my first freckles pop out on my nose under the Texas sun. I was two. Though I loathed the growing constellation of pigment on my skin for the next 20 years, I’ve since learned to love it, especially as it reemerges after a long winter. Puerto Rico and my freckles have made fast friends.
As a kid, I actually tried the remove-your-freckles-with-lemon-juice technique. I don’t advise it. It’s possible you may end up with freckles and severely dry, cracking face skin. (Apparently writer Karen Spencer struggled growing up with freckles, too.)
The fancy word for freckles is “ephelides.” All you freckled folk, try that one the next time someone asks you, “So, like, when did you get your freckles? Did they just, like, appear, or were you born with them, or what?” Smugly and seriously say, “My ephelides have been with me for a very, very long time.” Discussion over.
Here’s a pretty simple explanation of how freckles work.
Unlike all the true dysfunctions of my body that wreak havoc on my life and wellness, my freckles are a mostly inconsequential abnormality that I delight in anymore. I’m just really glad I didn’t realize my pinky fingers don’t go in until I was in my 20s. Now that could have been traumatic.
What have you learned to love about yourself in adulthood?
A little note: You know I love (love!) when you comment. Just know I’ll be in Puerto Rico until March 12, and won’t be able to read and respond until then.
photos found on Pinterest, without identifiable original sources
[Friday Feist is a weekly collection of some of my favorite things.]