An Open Letter to My Freckles

An Open Letter to My Freckles


Hey, Guys, we’ve gotta talk.

The longer I look at you, the more mutant I feel. I can’t believe we’ve been together for nearly 21 years. (And my mother won’t let me forget how she scrubbed for hours to remove your brave colonizer.) Relationships like ours shouldn’t last this long. My second grade teacher promised me you’d be gone by now. Why do you insist on spreading?

Science says you’re only supposed to grow “where the sun shines,” but that doesn’t explain these two perverted ones or the fact that you’ve avoided my stomach entirely. Science also says mutations arise for some sort of benefit to the species. Should I be playing more hide-n-seek? Should I be squeezing out highly fit offspring? Up until recently, the only mates I’ve attracted have been sedentary and overly emotional.

Speaking of children, let’s talk about them, shall we? You’re scaring them. I can’t continue working with kids if you’re going to be like this. The last thing I want to hear when I walk in a room is, “OH, MY GOD. What happened to your face?!” Quit that, or they’re going to be horrified when I switch to summer apparel.

At this point, I can list the positives of this relationship on one hand. You cleverly disguise my porcelain skin and make me fit in among my pigment-blessed friends. You mask almost every pimple. (Thanks.) And if we’re going to stretch these compliments to three fingers, I’ll admit that I like playing connect the dots. (Don’t get sassy with me; I know you cover all ten fingers.)

If we’re going to make this work, we need to set some guidelines.

  1. You cannot be called, “spots.” That implies you are some sort of worsening skin condition.
  2. You have to choose one color and stick with it. Your pal on my right forearm seemed to miss the “light brown” memo.
  3. You need to stay away from my eyelids. I’ll allow the few of you who managed to settle there, but I can’t tolerate any more; after awhile, it won’t look like I’m closing my eyes.
  4. You need to obey the SPF 100. How the hell do you weasel your way past it? Unacceptable.

Don’t make me get out the foundation and bronzing powder.

Yours truly,

Heidi Thomasoni