Freckle Envy

Yesterday, I spent the majority of the day in the company of a young professional doing accounting services for our office. Because I am the administrative person on staff, I am also the babysitter.

This woman had the most beautiful skin I have seen in quite some time. Well, at least I found it beautiful, and over the course of the morning, I started fantasizing about trading bodies with this woman. Really strange, but you see, I have always wanted freckles ever since reading Pippi Longstockings. You remember Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Efraim's Daughter Longstocking, don't you? I loved that little nine-year-old, and I wanted to be her. Well, this young woman, had chestnut brown hair and freckles lightly covered her face.

So here I am, showing her around, wondering if I really wanted to switch bodies with this woman. Now, I want the same brain, but I wanted her physical body – or at least I was thinking about it.

Now, her freckles are what drew me to think about making this trade. Her hair was also a nice color, and it had no grey in it. A bonus. But then I started evaluating other parts, first of her face, and then in other places. First, I thought about her eyes. I love my eyes. They are blue and bright and soooooooooo me. And she has brown eyes. Now, I have nothing against brown eyes, and hers were very pretty, but I really like my eyes. I know, Brown-Eyed Girl and all. Some men love brown eyes. But I have never thought of myself with different colored eyes – even with the whole "change your eye color" phase with contact lenses. I just did not get it, really.

She was younger than me, so I would assume her breasts were firmer – they should be. I just did not think it would be polite to tweak her breasts while I was making this decision in my mind. I can see myself called up to see the big boss, and he ask, "Why did you grab her breasts? You are not gay, are you?" And to answer that I was thinking about changing bodies with her, and I was "kicking the tires," so to speak. Lock me up, why don't you?

Then I looked at her butt, and you know, I really did not like the shape. Is that odd? Here I am, being a Stacy-the-Peanut-Queen, looking at her ass, and thinking, "I have a nicer caboose than her." Okay, I broke my 15-minute-rule just to link to Stacey, because it took me forever to find her article. You see, I typed in "ass" to her search engine to find the proper post, and it did not help one darned bit. You see, Stacey, has a thing for ass. I think all of her posts use the word. People are a pain in the ass, she looks as women's asses, she is working on her ass, the PK got a piece of …." Well, you get the picture. She is obsessed with ass. I should have searched the other way, reading all of her archives; it would have been faster.

Back to my donor body – if that is what it is called. I don't really like her ass. I caught myself before I asked her if her ass was due to genetics or cheeseburgers. And I almost asked.

She had nice legs – nicer than mine, but not as nice as musey's. I don't know how you can have a not-so-nice ass and nice legs, but this chick does.

So here I am, looking at this chick like purchasing a new car – I like this feature, I can live with this, and, er, I don't really like this, but does it make up for getting the freaking freckles. You know, perhaps I need to take up another hobby at work that is less impactful on my performance. Perhaps I should drink at work!