Socks and the City

Sugar Daddy, while folding laundry, a rare occurence in our house and this time likely the result of my snide, "Sorry I only folded three loads of laundry last night": I don't think I'm going to bother folding all the socks.

Me: Ok. [He folds them weird anyways.]

A few minutes later, I put on the one pair of socks he has bothered to fold, discovering that it's not even a matching pair. As I select a sock that matches the one without holes: These don't even match.

SD: Since when are you Miss Matched Socks? [Usually I am Mismatched Socks.]

Me: Well, I only mismatch my socks when I've exhausted all the matching pairs first. And when I do put two singles together, I always match them according to thickness and texture, otherwise they feel funny.

* * *

I'm a sucker for the lonely hearts of the sock world. Why should socks be forced into early retirement when they've already been hammered with the untimely loss of their beloved mate? For years, I have provided a dating service for lonely socks. It just makes sense to me.

Surprisingly, my mismatched socks were actually a hot topic for discussion when I worked in an office. I always thought my pants were long enough to leave no one the wiser but apparently they are visible when I sit with my legs crossed. I can't tell you how many people commented, usually laughing that I must have gotten dressed in the dark. When I set them straight, they laughed, and put me in the eccentric category, which I find quite flattering. But it's also kind of scary; what do they do with their lonely socks? Do they just throw them out even though they could be at the peak of condition, with no holes or even any spots worn thin? Or is it just my dryer that eats socks for breakfast?