Sock Island
Amazing:
annoying, infuriating,exasperating, maddening, trying, tiresome, vexing, vexatious,obnoxious, irksome, nagging, niggling, galling, grating, aggravating,pestilential
Amazing + Irritating = Sock Island
You can name them. You can colour-code them. You can buy 50 of the same kind. No matter what you do, socks go missing. Not in the sense that when you move out of your apartment at the end of the year, and move the couch away from the wall for the first time in 365 days, you find an old sock covered in lint and cobwebs. Not in the same way that your car keys go missing, always to turn up at some point or other. No- socks disappear. Magically. Annoyingly. They. Just. Vanish.
Where do these said socks go? That's a question I have been asking the universe for several years now- ever since I have been doing my own laundry. I'm sure that poor Nelly (our maid) has been asking the gods that question for years on end. I'm sure that whoever did Adam's laundry (probably Eve- the lazy bastard) was wondering where his socks went, too. The answer, my friends, is as illusive as a parking spot right outside the civic centre. Yet...I continue to search.
This wouldn't be a true blog post if it wasn't woven with controversial statements and if it didn't smell pretty strongly of my own opinions. So, without running the risk of disappointment...
There's always a moment during the time that you hang up damp laundry that you just know that something fishy is going on. It's that moment when you have just pegged your left hand (left foot?) Super Man sock to the line, and look back into the laundry basket only to find it completely empty. In that moment, you know that you had put both Super Men into the wash basket, and yet only one remains, basking in the sunlight. You turn back to the one lonely Super Man sock swinging in the breeze and mutter two swear words through gritted teeth...Sock. Island.
I have another favourite time to prove that sock island really does exist. During those agonizing few minutes after exiting the shower on an icy winter morning, you stumble over to your sock drawer (still bleary eyed, half asleep and slowly freezing to death) in search of a pair (Note: pair. P. A. I. R) of cashmere socks to wear with your winter boots. You crouch down, exposing your butt cheeks that now resemble two ice-blocks used to keep your beach cooler-bag cold on a hot day, and place your head three quarters of the way into the drawer- eager to try and magnetically pull the socks out with your eyes and thoughts. It works, and you find one of the socks that you have set your heart on. After fifteen minutes of sand-castle like digging in the sock drawer, you fight your way back to the surface for a breath of air and find yourself sitting in a pile of single socks. It's like they were having a cocktail party in your sock drawer- all mingling and getting to know each other with a glass of chardonnay in their one hand and a cocktail sausage in the other. Your butt-cheeks may be warmer, covered in a layer of single socks, but you once again grit your teeth and utter those two words that makes everything turn red...Sock. Island.
So where do Mr Super Man and Mrs Cashmere go to? They go to Sock Island. Do they actually say goodbye to their little sock mates? Do they leave a note or send a text to tell their partner where they are going? Do they wake their partners up in the middle of the night (or the 'quick and mix' laundry cycle) and explain why they have to leave? Do they actually give a reason? Maybe it's them, not you- left not right. Maybe they need some 'left sock' time. Maybe they have fallen out of love with the right foot. I wonder if there were kids involved?- poor little secret socks. Maybe it's a case of needing to meet new socks- a case of 'improper pairing'. You know what they say... Once a white sock goes black, she never goes back.
Who the hell knows. All I know is that my feet don't feel right with Mr Super Man on the left and Mrs Cashmere on the right. They don't walk the same way with green polka-dots on the left and pink hearts on the right. It's difficult to dance with an ankle sock on one foot and a knee-high on the other. It's not right.
So...to all you silly little socks, sunning yourselves on the beach on Sock Island, it's time to come back. Put down the Pina Colada, remove the sun-glasses and wash off the coco-nut oil. Return your scooba-diving equipment. Take the rental car back and say goodbye to the floozy that you met at the bar on Tuesday night. (No sock in his right mind would be at a bar, meeting other socks, on a Tuesday night). Pack your little sock bags, with your little sock clothes, and get your little sock asses back to the sock draw...where you belong.
And, while you use the sock transport that you no-doubt used to find Sock Island in the first place, remember one thing: If you find yourselves back on that beach one day, having left Mr Cashmere at home to tend to all the cashmere secret socks, I will make you redundant. I will find a way to never have to wear socks again. I will buy shares in the Haviana Business.
Heed my warning you cowardly socks. Come back. Or Else.
astonishing,astounding, surprising, stunning, staggering, shocking, startling,stupefying, breathtaking; awesome, aweinspiring, sensational,remarkable, spectacular, stupendous, phenomenal, extraordinary,incredible, unbelievable; informal mind-blowing, jaw-dropping.
Irritating:
Amazing + Irritating = Sock Island
You can name them. You can colour-code them. You can buy 50 of the same kind. No matter what you do, socks go missing. Not in the sense that when you move out of your apartment at the end of the year, and move the couch away from the wall for the first time in 365 days, you find an old sock covered in lint and cobwebs. Not in the same way that your car keys go missing, always to turn up at some point or other. No- socks disappear. Magically. Annoyingly. They. Just. Vanish.
Where do these said socks go? That's a question I have been asking the universe for several years now- ever since I have been doing my own laundry. I'm sure that poor Nelly (our maid) has been asking the gods that question for years on end. I'm sure that whoever did Adam's laundry (probably Eve- the lazy bastard) was wondering where his socks went, too. The answer, my friends, is as illusive as a parking spot right outside the civic centre. Yet...I continue to search.
This wouldn't be a true blog post if it wasn't woven with controversial statements and if it didn't smell pretty strongly of my own opinions. So, without running the risk of disappointment...
There's always a moment during the time that you hang up damp laundry that you just know that something fishy is going on. It's that moment when you have just pegged your left hand (left foot?) Super Man sock to the line, and look back into the laundry basket only to find it completely empty. In that moment, you know that you had put both Super Men into the wash basket, and yet only one remains, basking in the sunlight. You turn back to the one lonely Super Man sock swinging in the breeze and mutter two swear words through gritted teeth...Sock. Island.
I have another favourite time to prove that sock island really does exist. During those agonizing few minutes after exiting the shower on an icy winter morning, you stumble over to your sock drawer (still bleary eyed, half asleep and slowly freezing to death) in search of a pair (Note: pair. P. A. I. R) of cashmere socks to wear with your winter boots. You crouch down, exposing your butt cheeks that now resemble two ice-blocks used to keep your beach cooler-bag cold on a hot day, and place your head three quarters of the way into the drawer- eager to try and magnetically pull the socks out with your eyes and thoughts. It works, and you find one of the socks that you have set your heart on. After fifteen minutes of sand-castle like digging in the sock drawer, you fight your way back to the surface for a breath of air and find yourself sitting in a pile of single socks. It's like they were having a cocktail party in your sock drawer- all mingling and getting to know each other with a glass of chardonnay in their one hand and a cocktail sausage in the other. Your butt-cheeks may be warmer, covered in a layer of single socks, but you once again grit your teeth and utter those two words that makes everything turn red...Sock. Island.
So where do Mr Super Man and Mrs Cashmere go to? They go to Sock Island. Do they actually say goodbye to their little sock mates? Do they leave a note or send a text to tell their partner where they are going? Do they wake their partners up in the middle of the night (or the 'quick and mix' laundry cycle) and explain why they have to leave? Do they actually give a reason? Maybe it's them, not you- left not right. Maybe they need some 'left sock' time. Maybe they have fallen out of love with the right foot. I wonder if there were kids involved?- poor little secret socks. Maybe it's a case of needing to meet new socks- a case of 'improper pairing'. You know what they say... Once a white sock goes black, she never goes back.
Who the hell knows. All I know is that my feet don't feel right with Mr Super Man on the left and Mrs Cashmere on the right. They don't walk the same way with green polka-dots on the left and pink hearts on the right. It's difficult to dance with an ankle sock on one foot and a knee-high on the other. It's not right.
So...to all you silly little socks, sunning yourselves on the beach on Sock Island, it's time to come back. Put down the Pina Colada, remove the sun-glasses and wash off the coco-nut oil. Return your scooba-diving equipment. Take the rental car back and say goodbye to the floozy that you met at the bar on Tuesday night. (No sock in his right mind would be at a bar, meeting other socks, on a Tuesday night). Pack your little sock bags, with your little sock clothes, and get your little sock asses back to the sock draw...where you belong.
And, while you use the sock transport that you no-doubt used to find Sock Island in the first place, remember one thing: If you find yourselves back on that beach one day, having left Mr Cashmere at home to tend to all the cashmere secret socks, I will make you redundant. I will find a way to never have to wear socks again. I will buy shares in the Haviana Business.
Heed my warning you cowardly socks. Come back. Or Else.
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