Socks
Bare feet make me happy, and, when I burrow my naked little toes into Tevas and Uggs, I’m even more thrilled. Given this level of ecstasy over toes yearning to breathe free, it’s pretty awesome how much I also love socks. In fact, I’m amazed at the myriad of feelings II’llo.
“The Life Changing Magic of Tidying” and Marie Kondo taught me (and Shinto taught her) to express gratitude towards inanimate objects (clothing) while cleaning my closet, taking the opportunity to identify what does, as well as what doesn’t, bring joy. So today, I took my new Lululemons in both hands, inclining my head towards them and holding them as if they were Ms. Kondo’s revered business card, I expressed gratitude for their service (worn only once) and put them in my bottom drawer (the giveaway drawer). Not every pair of socks has to be worn threadbare to teach a life lesson. I thanked my new Lulus for so quickly teaching me that, even if they were a helluva bargain on sale, socks made with unnatural fibers that grip my feet as if there were no tomorrow, are not for me. I thanked them for reminding me how much my toes need air, and I released them to thrill some other set of toes less easily asphyxiated. Subsequently, because they are no longer gathering dust in my drawer, I now have additional capacity to focus on other delights.
Ah-hah! My favorite Cole-Haans. Purchased years ago, these low-cut purple striped tone-on-tone beauties look good as new, and, made of rayon bamboo, wear cool and breathe even hidden in sneakers not meant for the gym. When I hold these cuties in my hands, I remember the thrill of buying them on 5th Avenue, hearing the clang of a Salvation Army bell as
customers came and went. (I also remember being thrilled by the flesh-colored stilettos I bought the same day, but I thanked them for their service on my 70th birthday and released them to bedevil someone else’s lumbar. Nancy Pelosi, how do you do it?)
I’ve had an entire collection of Injinji brand toe socks since back in the day when I thought that yoga had something to do with the milky stuff people eat out of small cartons. Despite how easy it is to get too many or too few digits into each of the five holes, my collection of Injinjis is highly prized. Because each little piggy has a cozy pen of their own, I feel shielded against hot as well as 6cold flashes that played havoc with the wellbeing of my underpinnings, side effects of a neurological disorder undiagnosed for 60 years which disappeared when food allergies were diagnosed. However, I still wear the black ones that show above the throats of my white tennis shoes, because I abhor white socks once white is just a memory, and I don’t mind black socks that aren’t white.
Hands down (feet down?) the best-in-show, blue-ribbon winners are the hand-made socks that Fran knitted. Remarkable Fran, at 92, several years after she was surprised to learn she only had six months to live, she was still knitting hats for people she met at chemo. But back in the day when her knitting required forethought and veteran skills, and she wasn’t just trying to use up leftover yarn before she died, I was the lucky recipient of much of her dedication: afghans with intricately colored patterns made to order for everyone in my family, and a ridiculously fuzzy coat for Carina Maltese. My favorites, however, are the cozy woolen socks, little striped miracles knitted and purled from a single skein. They are the only socks that are allowed in my Tevas and Uggs, and they reside in a most favored part of the drawer to delight me today, and for tomorrow, as well..
