I see you staring at me from across the nail salon. While I couldn’t help but observe your salsa-stained sweatshirt, you surely noticed I am wearing a crisp, white bohemian-style ruffled peplum top.

White shirts are like my second skin. What can I say? I’m a little bit fairy angel, a little bit Stevie Nicks.

I know how it must make you feel to see me or any human for that matter, in white, considering you can’t wear it for more than 11 seconds without getting a glob of ketchup, a smear of chocolate ice cream, or a splash of red wine directly over your left boob. I feel you, sister. But barely.

I once spilled soda on my black trousers in a totally dark movie theater during an indie film I was the only person watching, so I’ve almost been there.

For me, wearing a white shirt is like my “art.” Oh, I wear white jeans too — even during my period. Especially during my period. I call them my “period jeans.” Wait, your period jeans aren’t white? Then what color are they?

I learned to wear white as a child, and have spent my lifetime mastering it.

My mother was obsessed with white. She used to dress us in white for church, Sunday dinner, Monday breakfast, Wednesday lunch, school photos, all of winter, special car rides, most car rides, visits to see Grandma at the Chinese buffet, and of course, parties. Our house was white, most of our furniture was white, my bedspread and walls? White as a game show host’s teeth. My bras and panties — yep, all white. Even our bathroom towels and washcloths were white. My mom was a wild card!

My mother trained me as a toddler to wear white. My diapers were white — she didn’t care. You know those adorable white dresses and white bibs and tiny white shoes that you see in catalogs and wonder, “Who the hell buys this stuff for their kids?” They filled my faux rustic Victorian dresser. My mom lived on the edge, and she raised me to do the same.

I took karate as a kid, just for the karategi. On Halloween, my costumes alternated between marshmallow, ghost, cloud, dead sheep and refrigerator.

My mom rallied to make our school’s team colors white and white. She came close — they went with white and cream. She was devastated.

In high school, I wore white tees to fitness class, my gymnastics leotard was white, and for prom, I donned my mom’s wedding dress. She was over the full, white moon.

In college, I would sometimes challenge myself by wearing white and drinking sangria on whatever yacht I happened to find myself on. Though I avoid pasta, because a moment on the lips and nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, yada yada — on the rare occasion I eat bowls of warm tomato sauce, yes, I did say to-mahhh-to sauce, and I am pleased as a brimming glass of punch to report that I haven’t ever had even one splatter or dot on my white J. Crew cardigan.

Wearing white all the time is as amazing as you have often imagined. Though it took some practice, I can wear flowing, angelic white pantsuits, spotless sugary cheerleader skirts, avalanche-colored blouses, and white shoes any time of the year. Oh, the white-shoe rule? It was made up by a jealous frenemy of mine.

Because I can wear white with such ease, I’ve looked stunning for every job interview and date I ever had. Life has been fun and effortless. I’ve never had the flu or broken a bone. I graduated summa cum laude from a good school. But funny, here I am, getting my nails done in the same place as you.

Take away my ability to flawlessly wear white, and we are pretty much the same.

But yeah, I’m so confident in my abilities to avoid any food conflict on my outfits that — hey! It’s not very nice to splash iced coffee on a stranger. But never mind you. I brought my own bleach spray, as I always do. I’m going to pop into the wash closet real quick, and when I emerge, as if by magic, my shirt will be as white as a Four Seasons toilet.