You know perfectly well the difference between what is necessary and what is desirable, and you are old enough not to assume the first matters more.
In a sensible wardrobe, everything goes with everything, lasts for years, and produces exactly the impression expected of it. Boredom is rarely badly dressed.
You know how to choose impeccable things. You know how to be appropriate, composed, and exactly the sort of woman beside whom even a waiter remembers from which side the wine should be served. But perfection, when used every day, develops an unpleasant habit of passing itself off as a virtue.
And then, among all the things that go with everything, you choose the one that goes specifically with you.
The smoky green recalls moss after rain. White mohair covers almost half the sweater, a visible pale cobweb, airy and nearly weightless. One sleeve is denser, the other lighter; a soft ruffle at the neckline frames the face, while the asymmetric openwork hem falls in a loose wave.
There are two correct answers to the question, “Which side of this sweater is the front?” Turn it around, change the placement of the colours, and the whole impression shifts. One version is good. Several are considerably more interesting.
It is soft, light, and enveloping. The white section is almost weightless; the green gives greater depth of colour and a more defined shape. Together they look delicate enough for people to draw hasty conclusions and enjoy them for a while.
A whim is usually what people call a woman’s desire when nobody has managed to invent a practical justification for it. You do not need one. You choose the piece because you like the moss, the cobweb, the asymmetry, and the possibility of changing your mind after everyone else has already decided the look is complete.
You do not need a new life; the one you have suits you beautifully. Even that one, however, occasionally deserves the perfect whim.