Naval gazing

I just bought a pair of jaunty white sailor pants by Ralph Lauren. No big deal, right? Wrong. For me, this is like buying a chiffon blouse for a spin class. Somewhere there's a blueberry with my name on it, a cup of espresso perched next to a rambunctious toddler.

There is white-pant-destroying karma in my life, which explains why I haven't owned a pair in at least 25 years. But they looked so fresh, were a hard to find wide-legged cut and fit like custom tailoring.

I found them on the day our son Jules began his process of enlisting in the Canadian Navy. Le Duc, laughing, pointed out my subconscious support.

Someone else will keep my boy's whites pristine.

I find men in uniform–especially sailors–unbearably handsome. Once, visiting New York during Fleet Week, I delayed my flight home three times just to admire the debonair US Navy and Coast Guard crews striding through Rockefeller Center in their dress whites.

The city looked like one panoramic Norman Parks photo; I could not leave.

As for me, it's a Tide stain stick and crossed fingers.

What do you do when faced with an item of inevitable fragility? Buy it anyway and enjoy it while it lasts, or walk on by?

Update: I noticed a woman whose white pants were splattered all around the hem simply by proximity to the rainy streets. I returned mine and am hunting a café au lait pair.