So, it’s Tuesday night. And for the past several months, this has meant nothing to me. But three years ago, one seemingly innocuous night of the week took on an omnipotent, almost evil significance. No, it was not the night of my Narcotics Anonymous meetings (joke). It was the night of Lost, a nefarious intoxicating substance masquerading as a television show. For the past three years, I’ve tried with all my might to shake the addiction… to no avail. I am its prisoner. Like a toxic relationship, I have stayed right by Lost’s side as it bitch-slaps me with polar bears, sucker-punches me with smoke monsters, and then apologetically caresses me with cheap explanations that only lead to more questions.
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Being as fair-skinned as I am (the names of my foundations normally use words like “alabaster” and “china doll”), there are a lot of colors I can’t easily wear. Any time I venture into a dressing room armed with a fuchsia dress, a mustard sweater, or an orange tee, I almost always hear my mom’s voice in my head, telling me that something just isn’t “my color.” “Try it in that pretty light blue!” the voice says. The voice is right, though, because trying to don a burnt-sienna dress and not look like a corpse is a pretty tricky thing for a pastey, blue-eyed redhead to do.