Once upon a time when I was a young wife, one particular housekeeping nuisance caused me 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 Grey Heel's better half? Oh sure, I could mate him with White Heel...but what if Grey Heel's former partner shows up?
Like in the movie, My Favorite Wife. Poor Irene Dunne.
These days, I'm proud to announce a humane system of handling troublesome loner socks.
The bedroom sock basket.
There is no more tube, anklet or mid-calf drama. A permanent fixture in the boudoir, the basket occupies a teensy space. It's not invasive or offensive. Quiet most days, it hurts no one.
It is symbiotic.
There is no pressure to pair the chronically unmatched. I'd even say, the day there is no sock basket in my room, is the day when I have too much free time.
Here is the process:
After easy-going socks have been paired, a clan of rowdy rebel socks surface. Instead of reacting with a horror movie scream (as I used to do), I say, "Hello Boys" and off they go to the basket.
That is their punishment for seeking love elsewhere.
I've done it so often, I don't feel remorse. One might say I've become desensitized.
Perhaps socks don't dread the basket. It's not such a bad place to be, I imagine, from a sock's perspective. They probably enjoy passing the time together.
Maybe stories are swapped about the old days when they were in the loop of mainstream laundry. Perhaps they console one another about sock hardships: toes popping through, getting lost in the dryer, being worn outdoors. Oh gravel! That's the worst.
Well, that's what I suppose they do in there.
Their community has been kept pure. No unsocks reside in the basket. If they get stirred around, perhaps two socks will reunite!
I shan't lose hope!
Would it be a happy reunion? Or would they each blame the other on their circumstances?
Sock 1: After the slumber party, I was carried into the house. You were 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. Alas, not even a strong wind budged me.
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.
Maybe I already do have too much time on my hands.