When I left New York last Friday for my trip to London, it was an unseasonably delightful 70 degrees. While I whiled away my time running under the sun in Hyde Park and eating spotted dick, winter returned to the city. I am not pleased. However, while I was in London, I also encountered the winter in me. This was not the first time. When I was in fourth grade, I enrolled in a modeling class at my local community center. (Seriously.) Why, as a pudgy girl experiencing the pangs of puberty and resplendent with a face of acne, I thought this was going to be fun is beyond me. It only served to make me feel even shittier about myself. The upside was that at a young age, I learned that my personal color palette was from the "winter" spectrum: jewel colors, bold pinks, black, white, and gray work well with my skin tone. The instructor, a former beauty queen, informed me that I should never, ever wear orange, which was fine by me. Unfortunately, I also needed to stay away from pastels, a pre-adolescent girl's bestest friend.

Anyway, my friend Mara had had her colors done by a professional color consultant a few years ago and it completely changed how she dressed and looked. We thought it would be fun if I did the same, so she made me an appointment. My status as a winter was confirmed (whew!) and the consultant went a step further to help me with make-up: It's all very glamorous, yes? I even tried out different expressions for the photos, trying to channel Tyra's advice to contestants on America's Next Top Model to "smeyes" (i.e. - smile with your eyes). Well, Husband said that I look like I am not only wearing lipstick, but "sitting on a rectal probe" in the fuchsia photo. Right.

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