One Blue Sock

I searched for socks today. It's not an uncommon phenomenon.
Anyone who has seen the inside of my drawers (my dresser drawers, that is), knows that the smooth wood exterior neatly conceals garment chaos. My sock drawer is par for this course. Bound matched pairs sit waiting near the surface - whites and browns and blacks, striped and checked and solids, all mixed indiscriminately. The most often used pairs sit up high, smiling at me when I pull the draw ajar. The lesser-used pairs peak out from the underneath, patiently waiting to be taken for a spin. Paired socks are a pleasure to be pleasantly plucked, quickly, without thought or care.

Today, however, being laundry day, I found all of the appropriate pleasant pairs plucked and discarded in the "dirty" isle of my laundry basket. Today, I had to dig a little bit deeper, pushing aside the lesser-used pairs to reveal the lonely single socks crowded and co-mingling at the bottom of the drawer. A white ankle sock, a black pin-striped nylon trouser sock, an expensive gray running sock, a fire-engine red fuzzy slipper sock from grandma, a brown wool sock with a hole in the toe...the list goes on. After much deliberation, I selected two white socks of near-enough match to be mated and suitable for the purpose. With some melancholy-tinged satisfaction I pulled them on. Looking down at the odd arrangement on my feet, I knew that these were socks I could relate to.