Once upon a time when I was a young wife, one particular housekeeping nuisance caused such grief. I would lose sleep, pace the floor and stew about the house. What could have been such a horrible annoyance?
Everyone deserves a companion, I thought. What has become of Tube Sock with Grey Heel’s better half? Oh sure, I could attempt to pair him with Tube Sock with White Heel…but then what if Grey Heel eventually shows up? Like in the movie My Favorite Wife. Poor Irene Dunne.
Nowadays, however, I’m proud to announce, I maintain a humane system of handling troublesome loner socks. Introducing…
The bedroom sock basket.
There is no more tube, anklet or mid-calf drama. A permanent fixture in the boudoir, the basket occupies merely a small space. It’s not invasive or offensive. It hurts no one. It is symbiotic.
Turmoil has been eliminated. There is no more pressure to match the chronically unmatched. In fact, I’d go so far as to say, the day there is no sock basket in my room, is the day when I have too much free time on my hands.
After the easy-going socks have been paired, a clan of rowdy rebel socks surface. Instead of reacting with a horror-movie scream (as I had so often in years past), I say, “Hello boys. Off you go to the basket.” That is their punishment for seeking love elsewhere.
I’ve done it so often now, I don’t even feel remorse. One might say, I’m desensitized to this process.
Maybe socks don’t dread the basket. It’s not such a bad place to be, I imagine, from a sock’s point of view. The socks enjoy spending time with one another, many from different backgrounds—like a melting pot. Large ones, small ones and a variety of colors coexist peacefully.
Perhaps stories are swapped about the old days back when they were “in the loop” of mainstream laundry. Maybe they console one another over the hardships of being socks—toes popping through, being worn outdoors. In gravel even!
Their community has been kept pure. Besides socks, no other articles reside in the sock basket. Well, maybe a dryer sheet or two, but that’s all. There is a sporting chance each sock’s mate may be found in that very same location. If it gets stirred enough, perhaps the two will find each other and have a reunion. Would it be a happy reunion? Or would they each blame the other on their circumstances?
Sock 1: After the slumber party when I was being carried into the house, I saw you just lying there in the van. You lazy slob, all rolled up in a ball, not moving an inch. You don’t care if we stay together do you?
Sock 2: I was so sad you left me in the van. I was hoping someone would kick me. I even rolled up into a ball--you saw that. But no one kicked. Alas, not even a strong wind budged me from my predicament.
Both socks sob and hug the best way socks can.
So, you see, the sock basket is to me, I would guess, what a Habitrail is to other people. I don’t have the heart to disrupt their lives now that they have adapted to living there.
Maybe I already do have too much time on my hands.