Matching Socks

I reached a new low this morning in my journey as wife. I was going to settle for socks that didn't match! (gasp!) I know, you're wondering what the big deal is. Well, the big deal is that I've spent the last 2 and a half years ragging on my husband about his sock sorting talent. To Neal, the socks are sorted if they're in two piles (his and hers) and they don't necessarily have to be matched and folded together. The matching socks will eventually find their way to their mate and wind up a happy couple on his feet when the need arises. However, he does take the time now to match and fold them together (in that fold that produces a sock ball). What we're still working on is the fact that sometimes our socks land in each other's chest of drawers. That then requires me to reiterate, "Hanes" in red is for boys and "Hanes" in pink is for girls. He's positive of his innonence when this happens, and I get a reason to giggle.

On to my next point - we are great at washing clothes! We have hot water, cold water, warm water, infinite water level settings on the washer, 2 kinds of laundry detergent, Clorox 2, Shout stain remover, vinegar, borax, baking soda, and a toothbrush especially dedicated to stubborn stains that won't yield to the scrubbing power of my finger nails! You want it clean, we're the team to do it! However, once these clothes are clean and dried and piled into a laundry basket, that's where our masterful skill stops. Unless clean clothes piling has become an olympic event, I'm pretty sure we won't win any awards for our inability to take the 5 to 10 minutes it requires to put our clean clothes away. That has led to a new skill for us, though. The art of sorting through 4 laundry baskets of clean clothes to find that one piece of clothing you're just dying to wear for the day.

That brings me back to my original post. I was hunting for a pair of low cut socks this morning to wear with my little ankle boots for work. Mind you, regular ankle socks will not suffice because they are just tall enough to stick out the top of my boots. And my pants are just a wee bit short since I hemmed them and THEN sent them to the dry cleaners, who so kindly shrunk them for me. (I think this must be payback for all those times I snickered at people in high-waters.) So, when I wear my boots and my slacks that ride halfway up my calves when I sit down, I have to make sure of two things - 1. my legs must be shaved in a recent enough time frame so as not to appear like a pin cushion from some 1950's horror movie and 2. my flaming white socks must not be peaking above the top of my boots. Nothing says geek like violating those two rules. And no, my TI-86 calculator with the 3" screen, graphing abilities, and 103 different buttons and calculus functions does not make me a geek either. The correct term is nerd, thank you very much. Back to the socks - I couldn't find a pair in my sock drawer (which is so full I can hardly close it), so I went to digging through our laundry baskets. I found one...then found another...and they didn't match. And for that brief instant in time I thought to myself, "You know, they don't really have to be matching, right?" But, you see, if I succombed to that thought, I wouldn't be able to keep myself from telling my husband. And that, dear friends, would totally undo all of my sock-harrassment he's endured. So, I kept digging and found my sock's counterpart. I can maintain my title of Sock-Authoritarian. Now, if only I had shaved my legs last night.