socks

…is a great name for a cat.

And maybe one of those horses that have one or two or three white feet.

But not four, because that just looks like it was on purpose.

In any case, I remember a funny story my mom told me once about my dad when they were looking to buy a new washer and dryer and he told the salesperson “I want the one that doesn’t eat socks.”

Because unpaired socks are the bane of my existence.

Smart people–kind with clean houses–just buy new socks.

But I can’t toss them (there is nearly a full laundry basket of single socks taking up space on my laundry room floor even now) because I keep hoping that somehow, someday, the other half will mysteriously return anxious to be reunited.

The sad–I can’t even find funny in this–thing is that the almost-basketful downstairs is so old that it’s not likely anyone in my family even wears those socks anymore.

But neither can I bear the thought of not having a matched pair to send to the local DI (thrift store) to someone who might really need a complete pair of socks.

That said, my fun daughter taught me long ago the joy and value in not caring if your socks match (this is easier to digest as a personal practice, than to expect anyone else in the family or and recipient of your hand-me-downs). It’s less stressful. Saves you a little bit of time. And it’s fun. But I think you can only truly pull it off if you can get away with making it appear you did that on purpose, not if you come off looking like it was carelessness or accidental.

Socks are one thing. But shoes are another. One time one of my colleagues picked me up to attend a meeting for work and noticed for the first time while standing at my front door that he was wearing one brown shoe and one black shoe.

I’ve done it myself–just once–with my Birkenstocks. One brown blog and one black clog.

Given I’ve spent a little time lately immersed in the stories of refugees and a poor boy from Malawi, I’m reminded to simply be grateful I have enough Birkenstock clogs–and socks–to make such a mistake.

[Day 70 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]

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