wear the white shirt

A guy once yelled at me to start living in the now. He wanted to date and I didn't, because he was kind of creepy and honestly, I had a thing for a guy who lived on the opposite coast. The yeller got deleted from my phone while Mr. G.U. (geographically undesirable) did not. But, the thought stuck with me.
*
I adore white shirts, and have at least a half dozen in my closet. A couple of crisp white t-shirts. A polo with silver buttons. A long-sleeved white tee, great for layering.
And yet I haven't worn any of them in close to a year.
It's weird: I think about it, I want to, I try to, and yet I can't.
I don't want to get them dirty. Don't want to dribble spaghetti sauce on one or accidentally draw a jagged blue line on one with a ballpoint pen (don't laugh, I did this to some pants just a couple of days ago).
It's just--I can't bear to soil a white shirt. Too many wears-and-washes and the pits begin to yellow, the white fades, the shirt gets dingy and tired. Instead of enjoying my white shirts, the pillowy white against my fading summer tan, instead of rocking one with fresh jeans or this super tailored khaki skirt--instead they ride around in my dresser drawer, folded Gap-neat, while the lesser shirts, the ones with forgiving stripes or a frayed hem get all the action.
*
I hold back, I know this. I wait too long, I linger, I give things--people--circumstances--just a bit longer, perhaps too long. I don't go out in case someone calls. I punt on making plans hoping this elusive person I really want to hang out with gets back to me. I save my best writing for the next story.
Wear the white shirt, I tell myself.
Put yourself out there. Try. Fall. Try again. Wear it.