Nobody wants one, but everybody has one.
We moved recently, and of all the junk I had to wade through and decide whether to toss or move, there was one thing that made for a heart wrenching decision.
The orphan sock pile. That collection of poor socks who have lost their mates.
My collection was many years old. My youngest daughter is now thirteen, and I still had a little bitty sock with ruffles around the edges. There was the one yellow soccer sock from five teams ago, and the more recent addition of an almost new Tommy Hillfiger sock.
Mothers can’t bear to throw these orphans away. Our instincts tell us that the missing one will show up the day after we get rid of the one we have. That the missing one is under a bed, in a suitcase, folded up in the sheets, behind the dresser.
The sad truth, in fact, is that we rarely find the missing socks. Oh, there’s that rare occasion when we do, and you’d think we won the Lotto. The neighbors think you’re a little off-center when they hear the squeals of delight coming from your laundry room.
It seems to happen most with new socks, or maybe we just remember them the most. You’d think it was limited to the kid’s socks, and we could explain it away with their carelessness. But it happens to all members of the family, even me, and I know I haven’t taken off my socks out in the Garage, or behind my bed, or used them to grease my rod and reel.
It is such a frustrating phenomenon. How can one explain my husband’s missing dress sock? He comes home from work, goes into our restroom, takes off his socks, and puts them into the dirty clothes hamper.
When the laundry is done and folded, one of the pairs is missing its mate. There are just so many places it could be, and it’s simply not in any of those places.
Every once in a while, I’ll go through the whole stack, matching up some that don’t exactly match, and the whole family starts complaining. I’ll say, “Oh, it’s close enough”, and my son will pull up his jeans legs in response.
On one leg the sock stops at the ankle, and the other goes up halfway to his knee. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t one of my better efforts … and the poor things go back to the orphanage.
And so we keep the orphans with heavy hearts, hoping beyond hope that the missing loved ones will show up again.
My orphan pile had grown out of its shoebox into one of those clear plastic zippered pouches that new bedspreads come in. It was huge. When we moved, I decided it was time to part with them. It was agonizing.
I was quick to get over it, though. We have lived in this house for four months, which is plenty of time for new orphans to show up.
I already I have a shoe box full.
