If you live in a less temperate climate, like New England, you may have recently noticed that the nights are getting chilly. It’s time to go through your closets, pull out those sweaters, and possibly shop for a new pair of boots. Good luck with that.
My favorite thing to do, when I return home on a chilly fall night, is to pull on a pair of socks. For me, there is nothing like their soft, cottony warmth after a long day in hosiery. I only wish my socks returned my ardor.
A couple weeks ago, I retired my flip flops and called my socks back from their summer vacation. The problem with socks is that they never want to come back from summer vacation. I think many teachers must feel the same way at the end of the summer; however, they can usually be relied upon to put down their summer reading, store away their beach chairs, and spruce up their classrooms. Then again, teachers collect a pay check. The only thing socks collect is dead skin cells. Perhaps this explains their saturnine personas and selective hearing. While socks have no problem hearing the phrase “Summer Vacation”, they do not seem to recognize the phrase “Summer’s Over”.
My socks wouldn’t emerge from my drawer of their own volition. I had to hunt them down and pull them, one by one, from the tangled nest they had constructed in the dark recesses of my bureau.
I lined them up and addressed them like the little foot soldiers they are.
Well looky what we got all up in here. A bunch of soft, girly socks! Did you have a nice summer off, socks? Did you enjoy lounging in my drawers? Did you get all rested up? I hope so, cause it is fall now, bitches, and Momma’s home. This year is going to be a little different, you hear me? I am not buying new socks every other week just because 7 of you decide to hitch hike to Orlando in the neighbor’s suitcase. You are not even close to retirement age, and Florida doesn’t need the burden of unnecessary footwear. They have enough problems with pythons. In addition, I expect to find you available and hole-free whenever you are on call. And you are always on call. There will be no workers comp for injured socks this year. I’m wearing you anyway, but first I will stick needles in you, over and over again, and infiltrate your holiness with cotton reinforcements. And you clever socks? The ones who like to divide and conquer? Listen closely: I will destroy you. I will hunt you down and turn you into sock puppets. I will clean my bathroom with you. This ain’t no democracy, socks. This is my house and you serve at my pleasure. Do we understand each other?
Socks are okay, but you have to let them know who’s boss; otherwise, it is two against one all day long.
Of course, socks hate this imbalance of power. You can’t really blame them. In their minds, you are one mouthy head, obviously inferior to a pair, and they can’t help but wonder how they ended up on the bottom of this equation, stuck between your feet and a hard place. They are constantly trying to unionize or plan a mutiny. Luckily for us, they are divided among themselves and find it difficult to agree on a cohesive plan of action. They will try all kinds of things to escape indentured service, including shrinking to barbie doll size, escaping through dryer vents, and committing harikari on that nail head sticking out of the floor in your hallway….
I feel sad for socks sometimes, but if it comes down to socks or my cold feet, my cold feet are going to win every time. Succumb socks. Or pay the price of betrayal.
|Ha. Take that socks! By the way, does this remind anyone of Hyperbole and a Half?