Day 10: Socks

In college, I knew a couple of girls that would walk around campus, wherever they went, completely barefoot. Beyond the obvious concerns--broken glass, stray nails, being stared at, residue from college activities like post-binge vomiting--I knew I could never bring myself to do the same. I just love socks too much. If I didn't have to do my own laundry, I might walk around in just socks, wherever I went. It would be worth the stares, though I think the possibility of vomit residue would still haunt me (no sock is thick enough for that). My anxiety about being barefoot, and in turn love of socks, probably stems from childhood, like all things. As a kid, my mom used to yell at us to put on our socks and shoes when we went outside so we wouldn't get worms. We would ignore her demand, and we would get worms. Eventually, though, we learned, and followed at least half of her directions, only to be fussed at about how dirty our socks were and all the holes we'd get in them. But they were just so comfortable, just the right balance of protection and freedom.

Years down the road now, I mostly wear socks in the house or inside shoes, but they nonetheless manage to become worn, dingy, and faded. Then there are the too-large and too-small socks, a common problem for a woman with long and slightly narrow feet. Like all collections, my sock drawer needed to be reevaluated. Half have found a new home in the garbage.