My mother told me that when I was born—and, of course, it’s true—I was the prettiest baby in the maternity ward. And I have paid dearly for that doll-like, milky skin. While swarthier November birth mates tanned to a golden nut-brown à la Ali MacGraw every summer, I burned to a crisp and had to be swaddled in towels soaked in cold, sour milk to calm the inflammation. The sour clung to me, like an institutional smell, though I was grateful for the freckles that finally popped up on my shoulders, my back and the bridge of my nose. Cute!