Socks

Nothing in life is perfect, and everything has the potential to cause problems. It’s just a fact of life. But over the past few years, I’ve realized my intense dislike for an incredibly common, every day item. Socks. Yes, socks. Every day I loathe them a bit more. Or I would loathe them… if I could ever find them.

You can’t find socks. No matter how many socks I throw in the washer, a considerably lesser number finds its way out of the dryer. Is my lint trap hungry? Do our feet stink, and they’re hiding? Is someone breaking into my home and stealing them to replace their missing socks? Am I absolutely insane? Where are my socks?

Buying more isn’t an option. It’s just not. Because when I buy more socks, I don’t find more socks. I lose more socks. Then I get more angry and frustrated with the amount of money I continue to spend on tiny little foot covers that just won’t hang around.

Then there is Saydee. My dear, sweet, doofy dog. She’s a German shepherd and lab mix, but her personality is one-hundred-percent lab. Completely. And her head is slightly small for her body, which is funny, but completely unrelated to the topic at hand. Okay. Back on track. So I buy Saydee the cutest, loudest, most annoying toys in the world. I also buy her the fluffiest, snuggliest and chewiest toys. Basically, if it’s a dog toy, I buy it. But Saydee. Dear sweet Saydee. She eats my socks. She eats my husband’s socks. My kid’s socks. She just looooves socks. Why Saydee? Why?

Then there’s the joy of adulting. Once upon a time I could throw on sneakers and weird, awkward squished up socks with anything. Because when you’re a kid, who cares? But in the adult life of looking professional, sleek, cute etc… socks apparently matter. But now I can’t just buy big-ass packs of socks and go along my way. Nope. It’s not that easy. There’s athletic socks for when I get off my butt and onto some sort of workout equipment. There’s no show for low shoes, there’s peep toe for heels I don’t want to stink. There are boot socks. Did you know there are socks just for wearing with your boots? (Well, there are. Right? I know!!!! ) Then there are socks for wearing converse, socks that are really just tiny pieces of weird stocking material to keep my flats from killing me, fuzzy warm jammie socks, then there are husband socks and kid socks.

And kid socks. See, kid socks have some kind of magical seam in them. This little seam is apparently not in adult socks. And it’s a mean seam. It makes every single sock my 6 year puts on “feel funny”. These socks are not good enough. And my six year old needs to try on 4 or 5 socks before she decides she will allow it. And of course this sock that finally passes the sock test of the six year old decides to attack my poor innocent child as soon as a shoe is placed over this sock. I’m dead serious. Every single day is a full on war with a sleepy child as she is innocently targeted and attacked by these “funny-feeling” socks.

Seriously. Socks. The least seen, the least important, easiest item to replace in my wardrobe, causes the most stress out of any clothing items. Why? Why does this happen? Socks should not cause anxiety. But they do. They do. And I hate them. Completely and entirely hate them and their entire existence. Damn you, socks. Damn you.

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