Eventually, I made peace with my lot. After all, there are worse things than being a Winter. Mosquitoes, for instance.
Once I started dressing like a main character from a Disney On Ice production of Frozen, things improved. My skin looked less sallow. My eyes stood out. I received compliments from strangers who did not appear to be drunk. People started saying things like, “You look great,” which, for an over-caffeinated journalist, usually means, “You look conscious.”
Then came the power trip. I started silently judging others. “That man’s obviously an Autumn,” I’d think, “and yet he dares to wear lime.” High on chromatic superiority, I felt a charitable sense of pity towards all the poor souls trapped in the wrong season, walking assaults on the human retina.
