I’m snowed in for the sixth day. I’ve had time to think about everything in the world. This particular post has been forming for a few weeks, and now I have a little bit of free time to type it out.
It started when my friend raved about Woven Pear socks. I commented to tell her “I have a sock addiction.”
I do. I am a person who hates spending money on items of clothing people never see, camisoles worn under sweaters, bras, panties, etc… But socks, an article of clothing rarely viewed by anyone but the wearer? I spend money on that without a second thought. I want my socks to be thick and warm, because I am prone to really cold toes. I have some circulation issues in my feet.
But that is just the tip of the iceberg. When I think about socks, I hop on a mental time machine and land back in 8th grade. Let me channel my inner Golden Girl Sophia for a bit:
Picture it. Hopkins Middle School. Valentine’s Day, 1996.
I was an awkward 8th grader, to put it mildly. Over the years, I was made fun of for everything from my pale complexion and black hair to my flat chest and crooked teeth. The most common thing people teased me about was clothing. No matter how I tried, I could not wear the right thing. Even if what I had on looked like what someone else had on, I would have the wrong brand, the Walmart version of whatever was popular at the time.
On Valentine’s Day, I was excited to wear my new red baby doll tee. Baby doll tees were in, and I knew this one looked good on me. It accentuated the slight curve of my breasts and waist. It was red and black, which looked good with my dark hair and eyes. That morning, as I got dressed, I chose a pair of red socks.
That was my mortal sin, y’all. Red socks.
It was another case of me almost getting it right. No one had a word to say about my cute shirt, but I vividly remember a girl in my science class pointing at my feet and laughing in that mean way girls laugh when they are certain of their personal superiority to the butt of the joke.
That day, I learned that no one wore red socks. No one wore any kind of sock except plain white athletic socks. My red socks were like a neon sign blinking over my head, exclaiming, “DORK CENTRAL.”
I never wore those socks again.
For years, I never wore any sock that wasn’t white. I can remember, as an adult, needing to wear black dress socks and feeling total panic over the whole thing.
And then, some time after having two kids and fighting through Depression, I bought a pair of goofy socks. Now I own two baskets of socks, ankle socks in one and knee socks in the other. I have plenty pair of white socks, but even the white socks tend to have bright colored toes. I have socks featuring Doctor Who, Alice in Wonderland, gnomes, kittens, etc… And now we can add these Woven Pear socks from my friend’s boutique: Speck and Louise.
They are thick around my cold toes AND they are adorable. This month, I will turn 36 years old, and I no longer give a damn what anyone thinks about my clothes.