It’s time to talk about skin.
Everybody has it. It seals in your guts. It prevents infection. It creates tough shields over spots which are frequently abraded or cut. It weeps salty moisture to keep us cool. It grows hair in unique patterns. It stretches like crazy.
Why do we say so many hateful things about it?
It is summer, so mine is 90% covered in freckles. I look like Seurat tried to paint on my tan, and used six different brush sizes. The parts that aren’t exposed to the sun are pale like an Easter Lily, with random melanin spots for no discernable reason.
My skin is soft. My skin is everywhere it should be. My skin crops up little moles or spots (red, brown, golden, doesn’t matter), just to keep things interesting. My skin does its job beautifully (although it still overreacts to sunlight). My skin sends up goosebumps when something exciting happens. My skin floods with color every time I am laughing, or angry, or singing, or thinking someone’s cute, or wishing I could hide.
My skin is one of my most expressive features: not sure what I’m thinking? Look at the color in my cheeks and ears.