Just before Christmas, I was a guest on a live morning show south of Chicago to talk about The Longing Season and John Newton. There was much discussion about my outfit (colors, patterns, accessories) and hair (up or down?) and lipstick (luscious red? pouty pink?). There was discussion ad nauseum.
And let me just say upfront: I looked good. At least, that’s what my driver, the studio receptionist, the show stylist, the hosts, and my own jaundiced eye said. Here—you be the judge. 
So imagine my surprise—nay, despair—when I watched the DVD of the interview with my publicist and discovered that under the glaring studio lights, I looked TEN YEARS OLDER. At least. Oh, the horror.
Now, I’ve heard the camera can add ten pounds…but ten years? I mean, I was willing to overlook the curl that sprung out of the side of my head like a tail out of a pig’s behind (although my publicist had strong words about that) and I took notes on the hand flinging and flipping I seem to enjoy. But the shock of the washed-out, Southern-girl, pasty-white skin pushed me over the edge. This wasn’t peaches-and-cream, people. This was anemic.
See, when a woman is single and of a certain age where terrorism statistics are used to compare her odds of marrying, it doesn’t help that a studio camera adds ten years. Seriously. *sigh*
I need a tan. But I have a publishing deadline, so I’ll settle for an appointment with a cosmetologist who specializes in television make-up. And next time, the camera won’t lie.
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