The life of a college student has taught me few things. The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. The Oxford Comma (or serial comma, for those of us who don’t affix concepts to universities) is a point of heated argument. Laundry is not something you can put off. Especially when it comes to your socks.
Socks have a certain subtlety about them. They’re so innocent, yet so deceitful. Kicking someone else’s shoe is just awkward. Feeling their toes with yours is just a tad strange. But socks. Socks are smooth and run up someone’s legs. Tracing their feet with yours and vice versa. The flirtatious glances at a party are matched move for move by legs which intertwine on the couch, the free ends dancing about each other, preempting our hopeful tryst and daring the other to make the first move.
But the one night maybes with the untold stories of several bottles turn into stumbling dances to your room, where you stagger to your drawer, searching for your favorite socks. They’re cozy. Inviting. There’s nothing like it, returning from the shower after your 3 am adventure, falling into your bed and sliding on your socks. Putting them on is always a chore, though. Not because of the buzz or the absent minded thought process you’re undergoing, reanalyzing each move you made around and towards that girl who may or may not be into you. No, it’s because after the countless wash cycles and as many trips through the dryer, certain socks take on certain characteristics, and you can never be sure which one goes to which foot. They’re like people, molded by their environment and regular use until they have a set job and place and function. It’s weird to think about, I admit, but it’s true. My socks are definitely left and right. I can’t undo what is done. The elastic of this sock, worn out by 3 months of mundane trips across a football field, forms specifically to my right foot. The grey leading edge where my toes fit form an angle so that my big toe goes here and the pinky toe goes there and trying to put my right sock on my left foot is like trying to use a round peg in an oval hole; it may fit, but it’ll be uncomfortable, and you’ll know it’s wrong no matter how long you try to ignore it.
And the wear and tear doesn’t stop there. No. We have holey socks and holy socks. Socks with stains on the heel from that time we found out our 6 month old puppy wasn’t quite house trained. Socks which slide down from our calf to our ankles because they’re so old and worn, but we keep them because we’re incapable of letting go of even the smallest things. But there are THE socks. Maybe we own The Pair©, so divine and pristine that we only wear them on certain occasions, like our cousins’ weddings or the big job interview so we can impress up front and dress down later. Don’t forget the pair that feels so silky smooth that you were Tom Cruise at least once when no one else was home, dancing and singing along to Old Time Rock and Roll. (If you don’t get that reference, please go speak to your parents immediately and ask them why they deprived you as a child.)
I told people about my sock theory. How every sock has its partner. Every sock is destined to be matched with another sock which looks like it. Smells like it. Feels like it. Every sock has a purpose and a part of our lives they’re supposed to support. To make us look chic or sporty or sexy and desirable. And that’s great, but sometimes we have THAT pair. The pair that we save til the end. Because neither sock has a match (those poor few which were probably lost to a lent trap in the laundromat of some unknown town like Maquoketa, Iowa), and they only go together because they don’t go with anything else.
One is cotton. A hand-me-down from your father’s days in the Air Force. The sock is as old, if not older, than you but somehow seems brand new. It looks like a tube which suddenly expands and thickens about 2/3rds of the way down. It’s thick to the point of being uncomfortable in the 90 degree weather because this particular sock was meant to be used by our men and women on the front lines in some unknown future winter. Yet here you are.
And the other sock. It’s a relic of a past relationship. A silk/polyester blend. It’s blue body, green toes, and speckled orange dinosaurs contrast against the solid black fibers of the GI sock. But even though you’re pretty sure you left its partner at some girl’s house along the way, never wanting to go back into that bedroom, you can’t bring yourself to pitch this one. It has some intrinsic value that only you can appreciate. It deserves a shelf in the Smithsonian with a plaque once they finally recognize your genius and give you an exhibit.
Sliding it on is strange from the shrinkage of at least 50 wash cycles over the years. It’s tighter on your toes than its forced partner, so your right foot immediately becomes jealous at the room and comfort of your left, while your left wishes for better ventilation in your stuffy boots. Ultimately, both of your feet are uncomfortable and you think about all that time you had this past weekend to do laundry but instead spent it binge watching How I Met Your Mother for the 5th time this semester. Worth it.
But what does it all mean? Why does this uncomfortable pair work so well? Why, after buying that soda instead of actually washing your clothes, are you down to these two tattered remains of your life? I don’t really know. But it gives me hope.
It gives me hope that, one day, someone soft and colorful will enter my life. They’ll embrace me tightly, almost to the point of discomfort. But they mean well. And I’ll love them for it. After all, they’re one of the few who can see through a bulky, rugged exterior to the warmth I have to offer. A mismatch if I’ve ever seen one, but it’s almost as if these socks were meant to be together one day, each offering up their own traits, their own stories, to make the other that much better. Again, I admit the absurd nature of this thought, but I romanticize the idea as only a lover of socks and other little things can.
