I try not to let fatalistic ideas colour my thoughts, but when it comes to me and wearing white (actually, any pale colour) fatalistic is inevitable. I am doomed.

My parents have joked for my entire life that if you were to dress me in white and place me in an impeccably clean room, I would end up dirty.  My sister was the opposite.  You could dress her in white and place her in a mud puddle and she would remain clean.  I think the theory is that you outgrow getting unintentionally dirty, just like out growing having scabby knees and elbows, spinning around until you’re sick, and skipping down the street for the joy of it.  I keep hoping to outgrow it, but today I again proved I am unable to wear white.  My son asked me, “Mom, what do you have all over your back?”  I removed my shirt to discover what appears to be a coffee stain between my shoulders.  On my back?  Coffee?  How?  Really?!?  I think I may have experienced one of the mysteries of the universe.

… and no, I didn’t wear white to my wedding.