This post is part of Linda G.Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday meme -an unedited stream of consciousness piece that ties into the weekly prompt: the word ‘socks’, used any way we think to.
Coincidentally, I wrote a good bit about socks earlier this week. Socks as the Magi’s gift, sort of…and sort of not. I make no apologies for that – as the Vulcans might say, “kaiidth’. What is, is…and I had a lot of fun writing that poem on Christmas Eve Eve, and in sharing bits and pieces of it out like stocking stuffers to my family.
So, stuff that in your sock and….oh, sorry. Christmas tends to bring out the little kid in me, and last night my Accomplice and I were reminiscing about those kid sayings, because I actually heard him say, “I know you are, but what am I?” to our eleven year old. I know they were teasing each other, and I giggled at him, and he liked that, and she liked teasing Daddy, so it was just fun. When I was a kid, it was a weapon to be hurled at someone – usually when I’d been hurt by them, and usually when I felt powerless to do anything meaningful about it.
I liked this better. I like my life better, and the life we’re giving our kids, a life where words are fun, or meaningful, or toys to be played with – but almost never weapons.
But that doesn’t have much of anything to do with socks, now does it?
Here’s a bit of trivia about me: I don’t wear socks unless I’m going to work out. Not even on the coldest days. If you see me tromping through the snow, you can be sure that my feet are bare inside my snow boots. You see, I’m very sensitive to certain textures, and the friction between layers and different materials. Skin on sock on inner side of footwear on sole of footwear on flooring or ground is generally too much.
I make an exception with sneakers, though – and, oddly, that doesn’t bother me…hmmm….well, I never said I make a lot of sense.
Socks can destroy heterosexual committed relationships, sometimes. My Accomplice, like many male type people, had a tendency to leave his balled up and everywhere. Nearly nineteen years of cohabitation, and they stay (mostly) contained to the area beside his half of the bed (a space I seldom enter for Various Reasons; mostly having to do with self and marriage preservation!). So, once or twice a week, the laundry will contain a small mountain (that’s a foothill, right?!) of his gathered socks. Takes a lot longer to fold the laundry on those days, but I like folding laundry, so that’s OK.
Well, that’s about all I have to say about socks, except:
The Clintons once had a First Cat named Socks.
BJ Hunnicutt and the argyle socks he washed but never wore.
Sheldon Cooper classifying his blue argyle socks.
Bobby Sox to Stockings.
My daughter owns a pair of bacon knee socks. She never wears them; she has textural sensitivities, too – but she loves them.
Stuff a sock in it; I’m done.
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