While packing to move back to Ann Arbor I made the rookie mistake of only bringing what ended up being 85 percent shorts, 10 percent pants and 5 percent miscellaneous pajama bottoms that haven’t made sense since the late ’90s. My hometown is an hour away from A2 and I figured I’d make it back there in time before Michigan turned uncomfortably cold. What I forgot was that this state is almost always uncomfortably cold despite the month or season, and with complete disregard for the contents of my closet. While I’d typically shrug my shoulders and writhe into a pair of cut offs regardless of the forecast, exclaiming, “it’s still summer dammit!,” the past couple of weeks have been a very literal pain in my ass — because what are cutoffs if not healthy exploiters of one’s behind — and this is the year of the booty after all.

So I was prematurely forced into pants and left with few options. I had one pair of your standard blue jeans, which are ill-fitted thanks to either a positive fluctuation in my weight (doubtful, since I lived off Ramen and SpongeBob mac and cheese this summer) or because they actually belong to an anonymous friend to whom they will most likely never be returned. My second pair, a slim-fitted, floral-printed, hikes-up-the-crotch-way-too-far-after-you’ve-been-sitting-for-a-sec trouser from Zara that I got over the summer for work. And lastly, white skinny jeans.

While I’ve been alternating between the blue denim and the white jeans, I’ve unarguably become co-dependent on the latter, with one co-worker noting “you’ve really been rocking those white pants lately.” Was it a compliment? We’ll never know. But she was right — I’ve really been rocking the shit out of them.

And I haven’t limited the absence of color to my bottom half, but gone so far as to white out my wardrobe as much as I can. White shoes, white button-ups, white bra if I’m feeling like making a statement. It looks crisp and fresh and makes me feel very Kim-K-after-she-met-Kanye, which to me and a few other people (e.g. Kris Jenner) is considered a good thing.

As I walked to meet my boyfriend at a friend’s house the other day, he came down the stairs and told me “Rob noticed you were wearing white pants and said, ‘doesn’t she know it’s after Labor Day?’ ”

“Of course I know it’s after Labor Day!” I defended. “Besides, that’s so dated!”

We proceeded to go to dinner, but I didn’t let it go.

“More people should be wearing white year round,” I proclaimed, my gospel falling on deaf ears. “What about winter whites? I can keep going on about winter whites.”

For the sake of my relationship, I didn’t keep going on about winter whites. But what really is everyone’s problem with a post-Labor Day closet full of white?

According to a very thorough Google search, the whole “no white after Labor Day” schtick started over a hundred years ago as a way for crotchety ladies to distinguish women of new money from those of old. It had to be done.

Yet here we are, decades and decades later still upholding an old white lady rule that has no relevance beyond 20th century society, which really had nothing going for it except, like, playing field hockey in floor length skirts.

Coco Chanel wore white year round and the ever-perfect presence of winter whites aka those of the off-white and cream variety have become sartorially acceptable, and yet falls and winters are still saturated by darker palettes. As a wearer of primarily blacks and neutrals, opening the doors to make wearing white past late summer a socially acceptable custom has truly become my pilgrimage (in addition to adopting a pug and telling everyone I know to get Venmo). In a world where we don’t take a second glance at the resurgence of crop tops and let pajamas become haute couture, there’s ample room for all white wardrobes. Or, at the very least, me and my white jeans.

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