Two things that, in my mind’s eye, are perfect for me, yet that I can never seem to pull off:
Hats. At various times I’ve tried wearing a wide-brimmed Stetson type hat, a Tilley adventure hat, a cloth cap like the other oldsters wear, even a derby when I was in high school (shut up). My hat-wearing is now less fantasy self-image and more utilitarian: a ball cap when I’m out walking to shade my nose from UV rays, a Tilley-type hat in summer to protect my ears and neck from the sun, and in winter what in my day we used to call a toboggan.
Fountain pens. I get along with the disposable Pilot fountain pens, but I’ve never been able to stick with a better class of pen. I would use a Lamy Safari, say, at home occasionally in my journal or at my desk but never often enough. I never felt comfortable making them an everyday writing instrument. I couldn’t stick it in my pocket and carry it with me, I never traveled with it for fear it would leak, and today, after inserting a full cartridge, the nib would not let a single drop emerge even after I tried a checklist of methods to unstop it.
I find I favor utility over style. I have some Zebra Sarasa pens sitting in my pen cup on my desk, one in my pocket (a folded bit of paper in my back pocket is all I usually need for scribbling a quick note), a couple in the tray by my bed, and a couple in the kitchen by the scratch pad. They’re cheap, portable, and reliable.
