Libidinous Angels

Growing up, I was never particularly fond of my freckles, by which I mean I hated them with the fire of a thousand suns. On the best days, I looked like a baby, and on the worst—for instance, after a morning of the Texas sun spreading rash-like across my skin—I looked like a lobster with fleas. Of this I was sure. “How cute!” middle-aged women at church would croon. “Angel kisses!” Yeah, an assault by the heavenly hosts, I would think. Probably the same angels that watch me pee. (Religious dysfunction, anyone?)

I stopped caring so much in high school, probably about the time I delved into makeup and black underwear and figured out that I was not entirely repulsive to the opposite gender. I started seeing my face rather than a splatter of unfortunate pigmentation in the mirror. Even now, living in a country of olive-skinned goddesses, I’m content to adorn my angel kisses in SPF 700 and look like my pale luminous self.

That being said, I didn’t realize how much tension would unwind in my heart when we entered the United Kingdom the first week of our vacation. All around us were quilt-blocked pastures dotted with sheep, paths meandering around a gentle sea, and freckles. Nearly everyone at our campground had a sprinkling of soft brown flecks, which launched my self-esteem into a musical number with dancing candlesticks and a chorus of syncopated bluebirds. I felt like I belonged. Even more, I finally saw what those middle-aged women had been crooning about. Because libidinous angels or not, freckles are kind of cute. Possibly even on me.