Dear Brown Spot:
Though we’ve co-existed for lo these many years, I can’t say our relationship has been mutually beneficial. While you’ve hitched a ride on my face and never got off, I have had to carry you around for all the world to see and judge me. It’s not you that they see as the freeloader; it’s me they see as the old woman advertising she’s lived long and foolishly–challenging the sun with a devil-may-care attitude and oblivious to the time that would come when all her mistakes would come to haunt her.
You’re every mother’s revenge. “Put sunscreen on. Don’t lie in the sun slathered in baby oil, or you’ll damage your skin. Do you want to get wrinkles?” And you’re the story of every sun worshiper’s youth–with that brown stamp of disapproval. A splotchy stain, like piss-water coffee or a UV paintball, hit smack in the face.
I can’t say I’ll miss you when you’re gone. We haven’t been friends, despite the fact that we’ve hung out all these years. How long has it been? It seems like you just showed up at the entryway of my mid-life–without even knocking–and suddenly you were a permanent house guest.
A slow and steady eviction is happening right now. A happy potion (hydroquinone) for me, poison for you. You wait and see. Start packing.