A few days after I was casted for a right sided hinged AFO (sometime in ’07, best guess) I went to T@rget looking for socks. I’m not one to wear to-the-knee AFOs with short socks. It’s just gross. Feet sweat, and even more so when covered in plastic. “Thou must have dry feet,” is practically one of the missing commandments from The History Of The World Part 1.
If I was going to be stuck in a brace again I was going to own it. People were probably going to stare so I should probably give them something good to look at. One pair had stripes the other more plain but still had stripes.
Up until this point I only owned white socks. I bought the same socks for years. If one got a hole I just threw it out and paired it with another white sock. It all ended up evening out at the end of the school year, except for the number of pairs of socks. I turned low maintenance into an art form, at least for a while.
By the time I packed up and headed to the great Northwest I had build up a stock pile of socks. I was careful not to get any holes in them for fear of not being able to find replacements. But somewhere along the way I stopped being so careful, some have gotten holes, gotten sewn, got holes again, and then were thrown away. Others have started to show ware but with proper rotation most are still in tact, or at least I thought so.
“Why are the toes of your socks so filthy?”
(Usually asked by my mother after doing a load of laundry)
It happens. Socks get dirty. Just how they get that way often varies greatly.
“I wore those in Montana.”
Montana “defiled” a lot of my socks. But in Montana’s defense I think I forced the issue. All of our ventures to The Treasure State were communal, as in we traveled as a group and functioned as a larger group. I, always knowing that I’ll leave some sort of impression on people brought my “best” socks.
There’s only one problem with bringing your “best” to Montana. Montana is like New England on overdrive. Don’t like the weather? Wait 5 minutes. It’s often damp in places. Damp places make for dirty socks.
The great thing is my socks didn’t just get dirty in Montana; but Oregon, Idaho, Washington, Missouri, North Carolina, and every state that makes up New England (and that’s just the short list).
Dirty socks mean I have stories to tell (which you already know since I have a blog). Dirty socks mean I’ve lived; that things got messy and I’ve come out on the other side. Dirty socks mean I’ve celebrated victories and occasions of all sizes & had a good time doing it. Dirty socks are pretty great when given a chance.
I get a little upset when I’m down another pair of socks, but it’s because I’m having trouble securing another supply. Other than that, I’ve never been so happy to have a drawer full of well worn, some slightly dirty, socks.