Another Cosmic Mystery - Where do all the socks go?

 

 

 

I'm lounging in my studio rocking chair, with my feet propped on the table in front of me.  I'm wearing socks today, mismatched as usual, solid navy on the left and gray striped on the right.  Personally, I've never cared whether my socks matched or not.  My husband Bob, however, does care.  Not about mine, but about HIS.  He only wears socks that match.  And that's a little bit of a problem.  Why?


Well, because I'm the de factor laudress in this house and for some reason, I can't keep track of socks, mine, his or anybody else's.  Hence, there's always a small mountain (or molehill) of unmatched socks piled on a chair in the living room.


 I have a confession, however.

That small mountain of socks is not my ONLY stash of unmatched socks.  I've squirreled away a few sacks of single socks I've given up on behind the bookshelf in our bedroom and in the back of my side of the closet.  


The unknown wanderings and final destination of socks in this house are a genuine cosmic mystery.  They seem to disappear into thin air.


Their journey begins on the laundry room floor where they land when my husband drops them down the laundry chute.  Their next stop is the dirty clothes hamper where I throw them to percolate a couple of days until I get around to washing another load of clothes.  And I do believe this is where it gets tricky.


Bob ties his socks together before throwing them down the chute.  But I untie them before tossing them into the washing machine.  Why do I do that? I don't know.  I guess don't feel like they'll really get clean unless I do.  Anyhow, somehow between the washing machine, the dryer and bringing them upstairs to fold and put away, I typically manage to lose some socks and end up with several lonely singles, bereft of their mates. 


Often, of course, a mate will show up later, perhaps in another load or clinging, unnoticed, to another piece of clothing, most often inside a tee shirt.  But just as many permanently and mysteriously disappear.  


There's a solution to this problem, of course:  only buy identical socks.  I think that's a splendid idea!  Then there would be nothing but matching socks throughout the house.  No more studying socks for subtle variations in weave, color and pattern.  


If I had my way, there would be nothing but identical black men's dress socks in this house.  But that's not going to happen because I neither buy or wear the men's socks.  Bob does.  No, I'm just the incompetent laundress who washes and manages to lose half of them.  


Oh well, matched or mismatched socks don't really matter in the big scheme. I suspect little does.

 

As always, I ask you to please share Dogwood Daughter with someone today.  As an indie, I depend on you, my readers and fans, to spread the word about the value of anything you find here.  

Be well and good luck,

Martha Maria  

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