Sunday, May 29, 2011

Socks and other Triumphs

My wife - who I love with all of my little charcoal briquette of a heart - has but one flaw.  She is married to an idiot.  While I suspect that Margaret spends no part of her day popping by here to check on the idle ramblings of her lesser half, my self-propelled hurl 'neath the wheels of a popular public conveyance in this space does not rise to the level of either (a) a confession; or (b) a mystery unearthed.  We will celebrate (my word though I suspect sometimes Margaret prefers "mark") our 18th wedding anniversary in about three weeks.  I assure you that the cat and the bag overcame separation anxiety on this particular point quite some time ago.

I should be embarrassed to admit (but am not of course) that I often become whetted to a particular notion or a specific way of doing something that while countless "better ways" of accomplishing the same task exist, I might never open my eyes wide enough to see them.  For instance, let us consider the curious case of my sock drawer.  I actually have two of them.  I have amassed enough pairs of "dress socks" (a/k/a socks worn for work purposes and/or with bye-bye clothes) over the years that the two top drawers in my dresser are home to my sock collection.  The population should have been winnowed out years ago but for reasons known only to me (and the jury is out on that actually) it never has been.  I have become the Statue of Liberty when it comes to socks.  I gather, accumulate and protect from any harm all socks once they come into my possession. 

I have faith in little - except for the presumed ability that a sock possesses to repair its own injuries.  Hole in the toe?  A mere flesh wound.  Bleach stain in the shin region?  No cause for concern.  The only offense that is punishable by banishment is loss of elasticity.  I have zero use for a sock who cannot say where he is initially placed.  If I wanted to wear my dress socks bunched up in a ball around my ankles, I would be an 11 year old girl named Clarissa. I am not and thus I do not.

Margaret has for years simply suffered in silence regarding my stance on my socks - one that makes me something akin to a PETA-approved animal shelter.  I was reminded on Friday morning that her silence is not to be mistaken for acquiescence.  Apparently a week or two ago while she was doing some other work in our room, she decided to color code my sock drawers.  I have an inordinate number of pairs of black dress socks.  She bunked them together in one drawer.  She assigned the "non black" socks to their own drawer.  In doing so, she made life easier for me of course.  Since I own only dark-colored suits, none of which are brown, I rarely have occasion to open that drawer. 

Friday was an "office" day.  After spending at least a part of every other day during the week either in court or out at an appearance (with varying degrees of success), the segue into the long holiday weekend was spent at my desk catching up - or trying to - on a million different things.  The Firm as a "business casual" dress code (talk about your primer on elasticity.....but I digress) so Friday was a khaki pants day (coming soon to a Hallmark store near you). 

In my simple little brain, the wearing of khakis necessitates the wearing of brown socks.  For longer than I probably should admit that has meant the wearing of one of two pairs of brown socks whose existence I was aware of.  The former looks like the Purina checkerboard logo but in a brown on brown color scheme.  The latter pair is solid chocolate......with a small hole in the top of the sock at or about the middle toe.  Apparently all of that roast beef consumption makes that particular toe stronger than its neighbors on both sides. Not strong enough to permit a complete break out.  At least not yet.

Imagine my surprise (when you are not weighted down by intellect, surprises come quite easily I assure you) when I opened my drawer in the wee small hours of Friday morning in search of a pair of brown socks and came across a pair that I do not believe I had ever seen before.  Neither quite as loud and garish looking as my checkerboards nor quite as well ventilated as my holy chocolates.  In the immortal words of Goldilocks, they were just right.

I had a rough week last week - especially Tuesday.  One takes a victory wherever one can find one sometimes.  Friday morning, courtesy of Margaret, I found one neatly tucked away in my sock drawer.

The road to victory is often walked in baby steps.  Always good to have a pair a socks upon which you can rely to get you there.


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