Sock Blocker

There's a mystery afoot. Or rather, off my foot. No matter how I rack my brain I just can't seem to figure out where all my socks are running off to. Not just one sock, or even a few, but lots and lots of socks.

I've looked under beds, in sofas, behind the dryer, and in the refrigerator (Yes, I've been known to toss strange things in the fridge when my mind is distracted). Nothing. I've even put up posters around the neighborhood with the caption Have You Seen This Sock? This only netted me
snickering comments from area children and a few propositions from a local foot fetishist.

It's a sad plight and my husband seems to be taking this the hardest.

"Not Bob," he says, tossing it's limp helpless mate into the ever growing pile on the guestroom bed. "He left without saying goodbye."

"Maybe it was suicide. We should look for a note."

We search for a post-it note that would read something like: What is the point? Stuck in the same dead-end drawer day after day. Partner ogling odor-absorbing sock at the gym. I'm launching myself down the nearest drain. Goodbye cruel world.

But either socks don't write or Bob didn't care enough to explain why he had to leave so suddenly.

"What do we do with the spares?" my husband asks. Neither of us can stand to toss them out. That would mean that we have given up all hope.

I scratch my head. "Send them to a home for unmatched socks?"

"This isn't the fifties," he reminds me. "Let's let them go with some dignity."

I agree. "Maybe donate them to charity?"

"No one wants to wear one tube sock and one ankle sock in varying degrees of off-white as a pair. Not even the homeless."

"Oh," I sigh, feeling the weight of our problem. "Then I guess your daughter is getting sock puppets for her birthday. And Christmas. And maybe even in her Easter basket."

"That seems the most humane option."

My husband and I sit on the bed, hand in hand. We discuss our dream. The same dream we've always had, once we get the money.

"We are going to throw out all of our socks," he says excitedly.

"Every last one of them!" I add enthusiastically.

"And then..."

"And then..."

We look at each other, our eyes sparkling like they had when we had first met.

"And then," we say together, "we go into the Nike store and buy five new packages each, all the exact same color!"

A smile warms our faces. It's a genius plan. Every sock looks exactly like the other socks in our Utopian dream world. There may be an occasional odd man out, but there will never be a mismatched sock again.

We slump over collectively and sigh, the daydream over. When we win the lottery that's what we will do. Until then, the hunt is on.

"Did you check the towel closet?" he asks, standing to resume his task.

"I'm on it," I say. "In the meantime, you check the freezer."




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