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.