Socks

I ascribe to the principle of Matching Socks fairly loosely.

You see, it all began one winter day, perhaps much like today, when I attempted to dress myself in the dark. It was an innocent mistake: a navy blue, paired with a jet black sock. I didn't notice my mistake until my lunch break, when I gracefully swung my left leg over my right while eating lunch and reading the paper. The cuff of my pants hiked up an extra 2 or 3 inches, exposing both my sock and my error.

After that, it's been hard to break the cycle of mismatched socks. There is a domino-effect of socks that stems from the fact that my original mistake, involving a navy blue and a black sock, had pairs of their own in the hamper, or in my drawer. And the next day, when I tried to wear navy blue socks, I had only one to wear. So I bent the rules and wore a navy and a grey. Then a grey and a tan. Then a tan and that original black. And now, my sock situation is so out of kilter, I don't even worry about making a match.

I am fine with this. Steph isn't.

"Please. Tell me. You did NOT wear those socks all day today." She might lovingly inquire.

"Um..." I delay. I need time to think. The best response is to say everything in a single breath: "YesbutIcouldn'tfindthematchesanditwasdarkinourroomwhenIgotdressedandnobodyelsenoticedalldayoratleastdidn'tsayanythingandI'msorry."

Phew. I might resolve to have a little more dignity and self respect, and to take a few extra moments to find matching socks. It's not difficult, but it says a lot about a man's sense of pride. But, in all honesty, I know that tomorrow I'm just going to grab two socks. And that Steph will love me anyway.