How many times a day does your mate change his or her socks (or nylons)? I think my boyfriend must change his three times a day. I don't really care. I suppose it's a minor phobia about stinking feet and if it makes him happy to change his socks several times throughout the day, I guess it's harmless. I just wish his socks would quit eating my socks. There's so many of his socks in the laundry and they are so big, mine don't stand a chance.
His socks are all gray. This is a smart choice. If you lose one, or only one gets worn out, there's always another to match. However, he never loses his socks. If for some reason there's an odd number after the laundry's done, that simply means we missed one in the laundry basket, hidden underneath a tee-shirt.
My socks are different colors. I do have some whites and blacks, but I enjoy the occasional red, yellow and green. I don't lose a sock with every wash, but at least twice a month, I count the pairs going in and there's an odd number that comes out.
His socks are larger because his feet are larger than mine are. (Makes sense right?) I prefer anklets and he likes socks that come mid-calf, so not only are they larger across the foot, they're also taller.
So, we have his gigantic gray socks against my little multi-colored sockletts. They go in the wash. They go in the dryer. When the dryer's done, I go in to retrieve the laundry and all I see is a heap of gray. The grays are all fluffed up and satisfied. (Wouldn't you be after such a meal?) I start pulling and counting the gray socks until I finally see a hint of red. "Ah, hah, there's one!" I place it aside. I pull and count the gray. "Oh, here's a blue one." I place it aside. When I'm finally done, there are 24 nicely stacked gray socks, two blues, two whites, two blacks . . . and one red.
"All right, who ate the red sock?" I look carefully at his socks. They simply lie there, too tired to move after their feast. I shake them and turn them inside out. Nothing. I carefully inspect each sock, looking for a hint of red in the cotton. Some clue as to where the red sock went. (I think their digestive systems must be so efficient that they quickly absorb the little socks and some kind of juice cuts down the dye destroying all traces of color.) I feel them laughing at me.
I gave up checking around the laundry basket, under the bed, behind the washer and dryer. I know that's pointless because I see the pairs of socks go in the washer. I haven't counted them going from the washer to the dryer, so I don't know exactly when meal time starts, but I'm pretty sure it's in the dryer. I can just see the big, fluffy gray socks tumbling and rumbling and chasing after my little ones. My socks may scream for help, but with the noise of the jean snaps and occasional coinage that's bouncing around in there, I can't hear them.
Okay, I'm gettting a bit carried away here. It's a simple matter of Natural Selection. No matter what I do, the Big Grays will eat my socks. I suppose the best solution is to continue to wash the odd socks and, with luck, the Big Grays will attack the singles. Then when I don't have enough pairs left, I can buy new socks. Or, I could be like my friend Marj who refuses to wear matching socks.
I need a hobby.