During my junior high and beginning high school years, fashion choices were very Saved By The Bell. At my school, the vibe was exacerbated by painted sweatshirts, rhinestone embellishments, and puf-paint.

Becoming a pizza slinger and general kitchen wench prompted me to start stripping down the accoutrement. I cut my hair short and started wearing pressed slacks and starched shirts. My best friend, S., and I spent a fair amount of time discussing our personal haberdashery and how much of our paychecks went to them, as well as the Paris and Milan collections and which models were doing editorial work versus popular spreads. (Another chunk of our $4.25 an hour went to Vogue and Women’s Wear Daily.) We adored Kristen McMenamy.

For whatever reason, I remember one earnest discussion over lunch in which S. concluded that really, there was nothing sexier than a white cotton t-shirt, blue jeans, and black Docs. I agreed, except my range of t-shirts expanded to include black. So we both proceeded to wear nothing else for about a year, except when in drag. Many experiments ensued involving cotton weight, bleach, and bluing. He became the Bluing King, and that led to pretentious nights spent in laundromats, reading Anais Nin and smoking in the sweet, fetid southern nights.

Eventually I gave up on white, because it’s too difficult to keep clean, and then on black t-shirts, because they fade so quickly. I kept the subscription to Vogue until my first year of Ph.D. work, and then there was no time to keep up with it. I started wearing color again. S. moved to Japan years ago, and we lost touch. Google tells me that he's doing graduate work in theology now in New York.

Last week I bought a bunch of t-shirts, and a white one fell in among them. I put it on today for the first time with jeans and sneakers. No jewelry, except a silver watch and wedding band. And all day I have been thinking that he was right all those years ago: really, there is nothing better than a white cotton t-shirt.