I love the look of a crisp, white, perfectly tailored button-up shirt.
There is something so impeccably chic and simple about a white top; it goes with pretty much anything you can put on the bottom, from leopard print jeans to a pencil skirt. I have a number of said shirts in my closet because every fashion magazine, book, or blog will tell you it is a staple piece of clothing that every single woman on earth should own and I am a slave to clothing suggestion. I recently purchased an adorable little white, three-quarter length sleeve, lightweight sweater from Old Navy that I have been waiting to wear until the weather finally gets a little cooler, and yesterday seemed like that day. I put on my royal blue skinny pants, adorable Stevie Nicks platforms, and the sweater. I walked downstairs and poured my travel mug of coffee and did a quick polish application to my toes. I walked over to give my husband a kiss goodbye, and he said, “You look adorable.” (Side note: the man notices my clothing next to never, so I was even more pleased with my outfit.) “Wait, what did you get on your shirt?” I looked down, and sure enough, somehow, someway, while I was applying the polish to my toes, I managed to get it on my sweater, too. Someone, please explain to me how this is even fucking possible? Toes. Polish on shirt. How? Then, as I pulled the shirt away from my body to inspect the damage, I spilled coffee all over myself.
This happens every single time I try to wear white. Every. Single. Time. I refuse to purchase white pants because I know the first time I wear them I will start my period two weeks early and end up looking like someone took a machete to my crotch. Every white top I own has been liberally attacked with Tide To Go sticks when I actually manage to make it out of the house before soiling myself. I am too much of a slob to wear white; this is something I need to accept and move on. No more kidding myself after browsing the style section of Pintrest and seeing snappily dressed ladies on the streets of New York and Paris chicly rocking the crisp whites. I am done, I tell you, DONE. At least until the next clearance sale I hit has something that is white and so cheap I can’t afford not to buy it.
My key ring resembles that of a school janitor or building superintendent. I have around 15 keys, and I know what at least 8 of them go to, I swear. I have tried to streamline my key ring in the past, and each time I have realized within a week that I need one of those keys I didn’t recognize and removed, which causes me to have to drive back from wherever I am to retrieve the removed keys and pisses me off to a great extent. That little key with the grey plastic head? That goes to the office’s offsite storage locker that I go to maybe twice a year, but always within a few days of saying, “What the fuck does this key go to? I’m taking it off.” I stare jealously at those people who have their car and house key on a cute little key chain and wonder how it is they manage such simplicity.
I don’t like secrets for the same reason I don’t like lying – there is way too much to remember. “Oh what a wicked web” and all that nonsense. I don’t like knowing secrets because I always stick my foot in my mouth when those the secrets are about are in my vicinity. For example, I have two friends that I know have herpes, but not because they have told me. I know because someone else has provided me with the gossip surrounding its contraction, in both case because some assholes had sex with them without disclosing they had it (and yes, both knew they had it). Please understand, I think people make WAY too big of a deal about herpes. It is not the end of the world, but you would think it was based on the way it is often characterized It’s a freaking STI, for goodness sakes, not a death sentence, and while outbreaks can be painful and potentially unsightly, it is what it is. I have HPV; what-fucking-ever. Again, not the end of the world. I have a HUGE problem, however, with intimate partners not disclosing this information up front and allowing one to make the choice of whether or not to run the risk of contraction.
But getting back on topic. Every time I am around people who I know a secret about, I end up bringing it up in some weird way. Take the aforementioned herpes. Somehow, someway, I always end up talking about something herpes related when these people are around, such as that South Park episode where the parents try to give all the kids chicken pox so they retaliate by having a hooker give their parents herpes.
Herpes is not a subject that comes up a lot in my life, but every time the aforementioned friends are around, somehow I manage to bring it up, totally subconsciously, I pinky swear. Then, once it’s out there, I’m kind of screwed, because I can’t clam up all of the sudden because I technically don’t know they have it. If I stop in the middle of the sentence, the gig is up and they will know I know and that someone told their secret. Gracefully getting out of a herpes discussion is difficult, even when you have had more than ample practice, like my dumb ass. So basically, please people, don’t tell me secrets. I make an ass out of myself and feel like shit for potentially hurting people’s feelings. It’s best to just not offer me the secret, because honestly, who can say no when someone offers to tell you one? Not this chick. Gossip is awesome. I mean bad, BAD. Gossip is bad.
How about you? Any lessons you should have learned by know that you can’t get to sink in? Are you brave and careful enough to wear white without looking like a slob by the end of the day?