Socks. Strange sheaths of cotton we wear on our feet. Protectors from the cold; mops for all sorts of disgusting bacteria; impossible to sleep in. They’re funny things if you think about them too long. It’s even funnier we gift them at Christmas.
Recently my family and I tried to book a group holiday to the horror of the ‘single person supplement’. Of course, a single person occupying a twin room in a hotel needs to pay extra for the package deal? Even though the resort actually shells out less feeding one less person for five nights straight, right? My parents were shocked. I was unsurprised (but still annoyed).
“Yes. Welcome to my life,” I replied.
There is something I regularly welcome in to my life: the never-ending but deeply satisfying chore of putting socks away in perfect pairs.
Dobby the house elf and men in boarding school dorms might be the only people with a need for single socks. Odd socks get moved from clean laundry pile to clean laundry pile in our house, nobody claiming them. Sad, single; their solitude not welcome here. I passively leave them to rest in their basket, sometimes for weeks, in the hope they will magically return to their sole-mate. (My bet is: if my sister emptied her drawer for a stock take, the odds would turn even in our favour.)
It never fails to baffle me how socks manage to run from one another. They tuck themselves away in the foot of gym leggings and joggers. (Something I vigilantly check before washing. Sadly, not everyone in my household is as anally-retentive.) They often find themselves apart. It’s as if they are desperate to divorce, elope, hide in crevices of laundry bins and overnight bags. They nestle in the washing machine drum to avoid drying alongside their partner. Eventually, they always find a way back together. Sometimes the missing one appears in the strangest of places. (My clutch bag after a night out, an all-time favourite.)
On rainy days and Mondays, I sit with candles lit, Netflix on, tackling the sock pile. It’s brilliant. I love it. Call me a Marie Kondo-spinster-dictator but like organising the fridge, or re-arranging the spice cupboard, it brings me unparalleled joy. Sometimes, more joy than a pint at the pub. (Definitely more joy than a drink with a stranger who I’ve selected based on three blurry pictures and will chew my ear off about his upcoming ultra-marathon.)
Why I am so obsessed with my sock ritual? Why do I hold so much positive feeling towards this task? Is it because it feels refreshing to do something that doesn’t require spending? Is the lack of single person supplement? Or is it because due to deeply ingrained beliefs, I have a desire for things to appear in pairs? I don’t know. I probably need to get a life. Really, I know I just need to fall in love.
When it comes to socks, people are unique. Different strokes for different folks, and all that. The same goes for relationships. People successfully choose odd pairings. Opposites, attract. Clashing, contrasting colours take up space at Christmas canapés in someone’s posh living room. Some people are happy with a near enough match. They will happily marry up stockings which seem well-suited but, to well-trained eyes they are different shades of black. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do. The match is more important than the accuracy of it; they just want to get put away in the drawer. For others, if the elastic detail is different, one has shrunk or faded to become distinct from the other, they struggle to stay together. (And don’t get me started on the white ones that have turned grey because they mixed their dirty laundry that time with a navy jumper.)
I know I’m not perfect. For starters (in case you hadn’t noticed) I can be quite highly strung. I swallow too loudly first thing in the morning. I have a manic, silent laugh. I get obsessed with things quickly and then get bored of them even faster. My farts smell pretty bad sometimes and there’s very few foods I can eat without bloating. I’m not without my neuroses. Still, I think I’m alright. I’m also (despite said sock ritual) more relaxed right now than I have ever been. I’m interested in the world around me. I’m creative. I’m brave. I’ve got a dash of bold in my load and I think, I’m mostly soft and cushioning to other people. My seams aren’t all perfectly pressed; that’s what makes my design interesting.
Me? I’m an odd sock. Yet I’m happy waiting in the basket for a bit. I only want the cleanest, softest bamboo cotton. I want someone to perfectly match my intricate stitching. I’m not holding out for a hero but I do think I’m worthy of someone who is a good fit. The perfect fit, actually.
So, if I have to, I’ll wait a few more spin cycles of the earth for that exact match to appear. I’m hopeful right now. All that matters is: I know they’re out there. Even if they’re hiding in the most unexpected place.
Loved this!!! Absolutely brilliant 👏
Adore this!!