Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Freckle You!

I’m weighing in. I’m sounding off. I’m tossing in my two cents. And I’m doing it before it’s illegal to weigh, sound, or toss my opinion around.

In a day when feelings trump facts or DNA or actual freckle count on actual skin, I want to say that I’m all for relative reality, because there’s a list of stuff I have believed about myself that my society has not believed about me. A. List. Of. Stuff.

But the biggest one is freckles. I reject them as a skin option. I do not identify as a freckly person.

Recently, my husband of thirty plus years looked at me with narrowed eyes, thoughtfully. I could tell he was being thoughtful because his mouth wasn’t moving.

A long minute passed, and then he said, “Wow! You have a lot of freckles. I never noticed before.”

I was less thoughtful. “WHAT???? Who have you been looking at for the last thirty years???? Are you insane???? I look like a commercial for one of those hip clothes companies where they feature freaky people with freckles.”

But he is right. I do have a lot of freckles. Here’s the catch. I don’t want a lot of freckles, in that freckles tend to be accompanied by skin so white, it’s see-through. No, I’m serious. See-through skin. So, imagine my delight with all the folks out there in society leading the way to new and improved genetic realities.

Born a boy? Want to be a girl? Both parents white?  Rather be black? Hate your hair? Enjoy hair made in Indonesia?   Sure. Sure.

Well, GOOD because I want new skin. I have always felt that I am really a human with gloriously freckle-free skin. In truth, it is the color of golden sunlight, undershot with a hint of glitter. My hair is spun lightning. My check bones are sharp enough to cut glass. And I’m five feet, nine inches tall, so that my wings don’t drag.

That, my friends, is what I feel that I am. And I’m not kidding, so you have to take me seriously. You. Have. To.

If you laugh at me or mock or talk about me behind your hand I will become irritatingly whiney—even bratty. Be warned.

Or . . .

I can embrace the package that “evolution” and DNA and life have handed me, rejoice in the air in my lungs, the wind in my hair, and the grandchildren at my feet. When I look in the mirror I can see that my scars are reminders of battles fought and won against time and cancer. My freckles are a genetic banner of the islands, fiords, and the wild North Sea where my people lived and died and dreamed.

And that more importantly than my outside, is my spirit. A spirit whose Father is God, making me the daughter of Heaven. Who needs human wings?

Linda (Winged Fury) Zern    





   





1 comment:

Betty Horn said...

Yes, you are a daughter of God, not a 6 foot butterfly fairy.

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