They were white socks with black heels. Nobody in the family wears white socks with black heels. My husband found them only a few days ago, in the back seat of his car. “Whose socks are these?” he asked the kids.
My son explained that he had found the mystery socks in the suitcase he brought home from the mountains. He did not bother to explain why they were now in the back seat of my husband’s car. We didn’t bother to ask.
I suspect the socks were left behind by the family who rented the cabin before us, and my son just scooped them up along with all the rest of his clothes that had been laying on the floor.
This shouldn’t gross me out, but it does a little bit. Just like when I’m trying on clothes at the store; I can’t think too much about all the other people who may have tried on the same shirt, or I’ll have to stop shopping and leave the premises.
It’s not the first set of mystery socks in the house. We have a pair of white and purple socks that were left behind after a sleepover. They wound up in my sock drawer.
All of the castoff socks eventually make their way to my sock drawer. It’s like the Island of Misfit Footwear in there.
I blame my mother for this. She was a Depression baby, and taught me to never throw anything out.
I am now the proud owner of several seasons’ worth of baseball and soccer uniform socks, which my children no longer have a use for but which are great for wearing with boots.
I have also inherited several pairs of white socks that were purchased on vacation several years ago, when somebody forgot to pack socks. We bought the cheapest socks we could find.
They eventually wound up in my sock drawer. I hate them. They’re scratchy. But as long as a sock is serviceable, I will wear it. It’s not until they finally get holes in them that I give myself permission to throw them out.
Mama taught me to be thrifty, but she never taught me to darn socks.
Last week, I accompanied my husband on some errands and wound up in the cycling shop with him. There was a box of cycling socks on the checkout counter, marked down.
They were everything I want in a sock. Thin. Smooth. Low-cut. Wicking. Brand-new.
I bought five pairs. Considered it an early Christmas gift to myself.
(For Pete’s sake, how old am I that I am actually happy to get socks for Christmas?)
Now, I can wear my new socks and pretend to be athletic.
The only problem is, on laundry day, I haven’t figured out how to keep my socks straight from my husband’s.