Wednesday, September 07, 2005

The freckles on my left shoulder are darker and larger than the ones on my right, leftover sun damage from driving to and from school my junior and senior years of high school--mornings and afternoons with my arm out the window, singing along to the radio at the top of my voice. My hair was long then, halfway down my back, brown and curly, and always stuffed into a clip.
This time of year, the freckles on my nose and cheeks refuse to be completely dimmed with makeup. I've got tan lines that I know are there even if you can't tell. I'm slowly growing out of the clothes that I've had since middle school; not taller but rounder. The old game of fitting two hands around my waist isn't so much possible anymore. And that's all fine. My seventh grade fashion sense left much to be desired and people don't often hassle me to eat anymore.

For a long time people described me as their friend samantha who was little. Being smaller than everyone else was my social identity, and as an awkward and obsessive teenager I worried about who I would be if I wasn't the smallest anymore. It's only recently that I've realized that I have other distinguishing characteristics, that I have freckles and scars and friends who don't need labels. I'm still the smallest, but I find that I just don't care anymore.

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