My new meds make my skin throw a fit. Itβs not terribly bad, just a few things here and there, but itβs bumming me out because Iβve never really had too many run-ins with acne.
My four-year-old sister, however, is under the impression that itβs just β3D frecklesβ, and that they look very, very pretty. She wants all of my freckles to βpop outβ, especially the ones across my nose; theyβre her favourite.
And it puts me in this weird position where I canβt say, βNo, this is acne, and itβs bad,β because I donβt want to teach her that itβs a bad to have unclear skin, you know?
Because the more I think about interactions I have with children, the more I realise that children will consistently compliment βflawsβ until theyβve been taught not to.
Like, a kid at the library, whose sister has vitiligo, saw my scars once and suggested that his sister and I should be cats for Halloween, since I have βtabby skinβ and she has βcalico skinβ. βI can be a black cat,β he immediately added. βItβs not AS cool, but theyβre the spookiest.β
When I started losing weight, my little brother immediately demanded that I gain it back, because I wasnβt as comfortable to cuddle with anymore.
And my other little sister always wants to wear her paint-stained clothes to school so that βeveryone can tell [sheβs] an artistβ.
I donβt know. I guess talking to little kids just reminds me that all of this superficial shit we worry about really is 100% made up.
