When Socks Go Wild
We undervalue socks. We take them for granted. But you know something? They're always there. Like a loyal pet.
Except when they're not.
It was laundry day. Everything was going swimmingly well. Shirts didn't look wrinkled as usual. Underwear folded miraculously into compact rectangles. I didn't discolor, shrink, or stain anything. Bonus! But, wait. What? My favorite sock was missing its partner. Gah! I backtracked, retraced my steps, didn't find it. I raised my fists to the heavens, shouted, "why have you forsaken my sock?" My wife didn't understand my anguish. She rolled her eyes, mumbled something about "drama queen," and went about her business.
But they were my favorite socks. So comfy. So friendly. So...enticing.
What happens to missing socks? One of life's biggest mysteries. Do they get fed up and run away with that missing shirt you haven't seen in a decade? Is my wife secretly consigning them to the rag bag? Are there unknown and unseen forces at work that conspire to steal socks? For nefarious sockly purposes? Does a black sock hole open up in the dryer, sweeping socks away to a realm better not even spoken of? If there's a sock God, he (she?) doesn't like me. It's not the first time my socks have been vanquished from earth.
It kinda' reminds me of when I see a single shoe discarded along the highway. How does that happen? Does a driver suddenly decide he prefers one shoe over the other and chucks the unwanted bastard shoe out the window? Does someone get run over so hard, it knocks the shoe right off 'em? Maybe it's a runaway shoe, fed up over the favoritism shown its mate. I don't know. And it's things like this that keep me up at night.
But I digress.
You know, I can't throw the lone sock away. I put it into a special drawer designated for lonely socks. The drawer's getting quite full, but I just can't let go. Can't say goodbye. Besides, you never know when the missing sock might reappear. Of course they never do. But hope springs eternal.
I want to live in a world where socks coexist peacefully with humanity. I miss you, favorite sock.
Except when they're not.
It was laundry day. Everything was going swimmingly well. Shirts didn't look wrinkled as usual. Underwear folded miraculously into compact rectangles. I didn't discolor, shrink, or stain anything. Bonus! But, wait. What? My favorite sock was missing its partner. Gah! I backtracked, retraced my steps, didn't find it. I raised my fists to the heavens, shouted, "why have you forsaken my sock?" My wife didn't understand my anguish. She rolled her eyes, mumbled something about "drama queen," and went about her business.
But they were my favorite socks. So comfy. So friendly. So...enticing.
What happens to missing socks? One of life's biggest mysteries. Do they get fed up and run away with that missing shirt you haven't seen in a decade? Is my wife secretly consigning them to the rag bag? Are there unknown and unseen forces at work that conspire to steal socks? For nefarious sockly purposes? Does a black sock hole open up in the dryer, sweeping socks away to a realm better not even spoken of? If there's a sock God, he (she?) doesn't like me. It's not the first time my socks have been vanquished from earth.
It kinda' reminds me of when I see a single shoe discarded along the highway. How does that happen? Does a driver suddenly decide he prefers one shoe over the other and chucks the unwanted bastard shoe out the window? Does someone get run over so hard, it knocks the shoe right off 'em? Maybe it's a runaway shoe, fed up over the favoritism shown its mate. I don't know. And it's things like this that keep me up at night.
But I digress.
You know, I can't throw the lone sock away. I put it into a special drawer designated for lonely socks. The drawer's getting quite full, but I just can't let go. Can't say goodbye. Besides, you never know when the missing sock might reappear. Of course they never do. But hope springs eternal.
I want to live in a world where socks coexist peacefully with humanity. I miss you, favorite sock.
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