Ah, August - the month when summertime starts winding down, when retailers ballyhoo their "best ever" back-to-school sales, when alarm clocks trill at earlier hours and when I seriously question my sanity (i.e., why in the name of all things good and holy do I choose to live in a place that daily records temperatures topping the century mark?). Oh, and lest I forget: August is also a bellwether for an exciting endeavor soon to occur in most households, both with kids and without.
The endless quest to reunite lone socks with their missing mates.
For all of you nodding in assent, I need not explain. But on the off-chance that we have a handful of uninitiated readers in our ranks, allow me to illuminate.
As a mom to four (including three adolescent males), I do a lot of laundry: shirts, shorts, jeans, skirts - and, unfortunately, the occasional ink pen, paper product or electronic gadget. While I won't go so far as to say I enjoy it (because, frankly, it's a task I procrastinate as long as possible), it's not too hard to throw a load of dirties into my top-loader and transfer them to my trusty 18-year-old dryer, which works as well as the day I got it. (And, apparently, also worked way better than my marriage, which only made it to a decade. But I'm getting off track …)
In summary, while laundering isn't a barrel of monkeys, it's a rather straightforward domestic duty that we all endure. But there's one spot where things go south and, honestly, have me watching my back a smidge more carefully …
There's something really fishy going on with the socks.
No matter who we are, where we live or how many humans comprise our ménage, we've all experienced it: We dutifully sort through the hamper, dividing up darks and lights into their respective piles, making note of each article as we cast it asunder. And we know, to the very fiber of our beings, that there are in fact no stray socks when we launch this endeavor. For each one we see, there is a corresponding mate.
So why is it that, despite this stringent process, there is always at least one - and usually more - sock missing? Why do homes around the globe (because I'm sure that, say, our British brethren wrestle with this bloody problem too) have socks that seemingly vanish into thin air, never to reappear? How, my friends, can such a mundane garment continue to be shrouded in such mystery?
Take crop circles, for example. You know … those weird geometric patterns that "magically" appear in farmers" fields? Though claimed by many to be the work of paranormal forces, that theory was quickly debunked when the "aliens" in question were revealed to be run-of-the-mill hucksters close-encountering with a stick and string. Or what about bigfoot? Sorry to be a party pooper here, but the elusive sasquatch is merely a spastic dude skulking around forests in a monkey suit. (Wish I had that kind of time on my hands.)
Disappearing socks, on the other hand, well … I'm not so sure. There truly is something rotten afoot, and I'm determined to ferret out the sock-thieving black hole and solve this universal puzzle. (Which I'm sure can be traced either to supernatural elements, extraterrestrial beings and/or George W. Bush.) First, though, I'll be kissing my newly purchased performance-cushioned Adidas workout socks good-bye, one of which is no doubt destined to enter the nameless (but undeniably bona-fide) oblivion that's been claiming its peers for myriad years.
Keep toeing the line, my arch-supporting friend. I'm hot on your trail. a
