Ode to Socks

Ah, laundry. That cyclical household chore. It's an interesting thing. It's one of those things that you don't really think about as being on your to-do list (at least if you're a college student like me whose to-do list consists of homework and ways to recuperate after completing it), yet you always have to do it. And for what ever reason, I really really dislike it. Dread it, if you will. I may even go so far as to say that I hate laundry. Though I'm not sure it merits such as strong word. But close. Every once in a while I get up enough gumption to do it and it ends up being this huge, all day process. Probably one of the reasons why it is so distasteful to me.

Anyway, I was just finishing up my socks and got to thinking what it would be like to be a sock. (I know it's weird; don't judge me, just hear me out) I mean, think about it. Every time you get washed you get folded together with your partner (provided he wasn't eaten by the dryer) who is only your partner because the two of you look exactly the same. You probably didn't get to pick each other. You were just made as identical copies and then flung together for the rest of your smelly, foot-covering lives until you are worn too thin and just can't take it anymore and then you are just unceremoniously chucked in the trash. It's really a shame about socks. So as I was contemplating and feeling very blessed not to be a sock, I saw the most curious thing in my laundry basket. About half a dozen of my socks had had a meeting in the dryer and decided they were sick of it and were going to revolt. There they were, in this strange lumpy mass, all twisted and stuck together with a strange combination of fibers they had probably heisted from the lint rack, determined not to be separated from their unconventionally chosen partners. (Sorry I don't have a picture of it, my camera is currently on strike as well.) I must admit, I admired their spunk. Unfortunately, as much as I can now sympathize with socks, I can't bring myself to be the kind of person that wears mismatched socks. Colorful socks, yes. Socks with character, yes. Crazy socks, yes. But I'm just not cool enough to throw all my socks in one drawer and just dive for two before heading out for the day. I just can't do it. So I gave them a moment to say their last goodbyes to each other while I went to get the scissors. In my defense, I really do take great care of my socks, probably more than most. I still have hope for that growing pile of unattached singles, even though more likely than not we will never see their partners again and I also give even the dying socks more of a chance than they probably deserve; as long as they still cover at least one toe they may still live in my drawer.

So there you have it. All you probably ever wanted to know and more about what goes on in my head in relation to socks. You are now free to either have your own meditative moment about the stockings in your bureau...or you can just write me off as a loony and go on with your sensible laundry-cycling lives.

Is this a good thing?

So apparently I've been given the title of "Detailer" at work. I'm not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. So far it has earned me the honor of being chosen for those tedious tasks such as cleaning the automatic meat slicer (an awkward machine that gets dirty in strange places) and the conveyor belt toaster (a charcoal disaster). Every time my boss comes up to me and says "I have a job for you!" (which is nice because there is never anything to do by the time my shift rolls around) or "This calls for your detailing skills." or something similar. It's kind of nice to be appreciated and he does say that he chooses me because he knows I will do a good job. Plus I'm the kind of nerdy, OCD perfectionist that enjoys those kinds of tedious jobs. So I guess it's a compliment. Yea, I have a purpose in life!

The Founding of Snartoofle

Once upon a time there were two best friends named Nina and BreAnna. They did a lot of things together like impromptu dance parties in the living room, reading stories before bedtime, and battling for the coveted title of card game champion. One day they wanted to do something fun before Nina abandoned BreAnna to go play with her cousins so they set out to invent a new game. It was called Snartoofle. They even made up rules to it.

It is a game that involves two people, two tennis rackets and one medium-sized inflatable ball. It must be played on a semi-cloudy night (the more clouds the better) when the weather is brisk but not chilly, preferably with no wind. It is a fairly simple game, similar to badminton/tennis. The ball is hit between two people, but it must be hit in a crooked, badly aimed fashion 2/3 of the time. It can be hit through the air or across the lawn. Three points are awarded to anyone who stops the ball from going into the gutter and 500 points to anyone who happens to pet a stray or neighborhood cat who comes by (though that rule is currently being disputed by the co-founders). When the ball is no longer hit-able (which is decided solely by the players), the first player to shout at the top of their lungs "MY POINT!!" when the ball has come to a complete stop gets 1 point, but if they exclaim prematurely, they get -1000 points. The game is over when the players hands are too cold or their stomachs are too sore from laughing. (Tip: the game is more fun if you are at the point where you have drank [drinken? drunken? drunked? anyway...] enough water that when you laugh you are in slight danger of wetting yourself.)

After finishing this delightful game, the two best friends came inside and enjoyed a few last moments before her cousin whisked her away to Idaho Falls, separating the bosom friends whose hearts ached at the parting, even though it was temporary. They await their reunion with great anticipation. The End.

Why?

Have you ever thought about that question? If you think about it, it really is the central question to life. But why you may ask? There you have proven the point because you can't ask the significance of the question without using it.

Simply put, life requires meaning and in order to discover its meaning, you must ask why. I have been asking myself a nonstop series of why questions: why is it that I have chosen this career path? Why do I force myself, against my nature, to get up at insanely early hours? Force my brain beyond its limits for hours on end? Stay up too late doing things that don't matter and then even later organizing myself for things that do? Fluctuate between such extremes of emotion and purpose? Why is it that I set such high, detailed plans only to be so easily swayed by those around me? Why? Because this stubbornness that is my character is a battle, and I'm losing. Innevitably, my more stubborn side defeats my stubborn side and I am left in the middle, feeling both triumphant and despondant, not knowing whether the better half of me has gained ground or lost it. So the answer to all those why's is simple, after all it's complexity: I don't know. Or maybe I do, I just can't remember. So I pose the question to you; answer it how you will.

WHY?