I keep a plastic box on top of the washer and fill it with socks. Once a week I sit down and put the socks in pairs. I separate out the lights and the darks. I then further separate white socks from white socks with a pattern. I feel elated when I find the first pair. I’m on a roll now. The second and third pair — I am on fire with sock folding. By the 10th pair I am wondering why I get so stressed about the socks. Then I hit the black sock with the brown toe, then a tiny white athletic socks, then a stripey sock. No matches found. I’m defeated. I plough on. I make a pile on unmatchable socks. I find more and more pairs until I am only left with the pile of odd socks. I go through the pile one more time. No luck. No matches. Just a pile of odd socks waiting for the next wash cycle to reveal a happy ending of a match for every odd sock. A girl can dream can’s she!
I’ve twittered about odd socks. I’ve Facebooked about odd socks. I found a post on odd_Socks. And, now I’m blogging about odd socks. Odd socks are the bane of my existence. I should state at the outset that we have no shortage of socks in our house. I believe my children each have close to 50 pairs of socks. I’m not exaggerating at all. My MIL brings packs of socks over 5 or 6 times a year. The problem is not running out of socks it is keeping on top of the odd socks once washed.