Everybody who writes a column has written at least one about sox. It’s always the same old complaint. One spouse launders the sox, the partner complains that one of them is missing—and then they both conjecture where the wayward footwear might have gone. Most come up with the incredibly original idea (NOT) that the washing machine ate it.
But as an old friend from Scotland used to say, “Not to worry.” Once the sox have gone to that Big Laundry Bin in the Sky, all the carrying on in the world won’t bring them back. When my kids were little I solved that problem by putting a shoe box on top of the dryer labeled “Sox Box,” and every time I came up short, I’d either put the stray sock into it, or fish around until I found one that was a close match. My husband hates that solution, but more about that later.
When we moved from Michigan to West Virginia many years ago, there were still about five lonely sox I’d never found a match for and I hated to throw them out—but I knew the new owner of our old home would want to start her own collection.
Jake Page, friend of Hopi Indians and writer of powerful prose about natural history, wrote a book called “Pastorale” in which he claims to have found the real and true reason you often find one lone sock at the bottom of the laundry basket. It isn’t that an old one got lost, he says, it’s that a new one got born.
Not only that, he says he knows where they come from. You know how you can put two wire coat hangers in the closet and go back 24 hours later and there are at least a dozen of them and they’re all tangled up and hard to pull apart? You’re looking at a hanger family. And after the parent hangers make more hangers, Page says, the new hangers are the larval form of sox.
This, he notes, is no frivolous matter. We should all know the facts, as sox are a very important part of the American Way of Life which so many have died to defend. Note: there are more than 300 million of us living in this country. We each require, at a minimum, five pairs of sox per year. That amounts to approximately one trillion, 500 million miles of whatever they’re making sox out of these day—enough to wrap around the Earth 15,000 times before you run out, or get tired, whichever comes first.
Why then, if sox are so darned (?) important, won’t men buy their own? If I need pantyhose, do I send Bob to the store for them? No. I march right into Kmart and bravely buy them myself. But I’d be willing to bet that by the time the average American male reaches his wedding day, he can’t remember ever having bought a pair of sox for himself. In fact, he seems to believe they’ve always appeared in his sox drawer by magic. And as he gazes into his bride’s eyes, he knows he has found someone who will carry on the tradition, a brand-new sox fairy.
Since Bob (who is hardly average, but never mind) doesn’t purchase sox himself, why does he get so attached to them? If one turns up missing, he runs to the basement and searches every appliance down there, including the water heater, which has been lurking in a suspicious attitude under the stairs lately.
Why, I asked him one day after one of his frantic searches, does it upset you so much to lose a sock?
“That pair was married for a long time,” he said. “They loved each other. And now this . . .” This from the same man who as a child cried when he accidentally flushed a washcloth down the toilet (but not as much as his mother did, I wager, when she had to pay a plumber to retrieve it.)
Bob insists that sox mate for life, and that’s why, when you try to pair a singleton with another singleton, the marriage never lasts. They settle for no substitutes.
Yes, there is more to sox than meets the eye, I’m afraid. It’s vital to your emotional and mental health to have a good sox life, according to the author of that little gem, “The Joy of Sox,” hereinafter known as Ann Onymous.
Most people prefer sox on a permanent basis; this is easier, Ann says, than always looking for a new sox mate. The Dr. Ruth of Sox notes that the best way to mate is toe-to-toe. And good sox will meet these three simple requirements: They’ll fit well, they’ll feel great, and they’ll last a long time.
You’re never too old for sox, says Ms. Onymous. Many in the rocking chair stage of life still enjoy sox. And if you treat your sox with care—never wring, twist, use hot water, or pinch with a clothespin—your sox will last a long, long time. If you have good quality sox, you can get by with less quantity.
This is especially important if your washing machine’s appetite cannot be curbed.
Donna loves to hear from her readers. You can reach her at WriteforPub@aol.com.
