LOST: A Sock Speaks Out

In my early days of sockdom, I'll admit, I was not very outgoing. Happiness was doing my job--keeping the Man's foot warm and dry inside those big clodhopper boots of his.

I am Rightsock, introverted and downright shy at times. Ever since I left the clearance section at SockWorld, I've avoided other socks like the plague, clinging mostly to the washing machine agitator for dear life.

My outgoing twin is just the opposite. Leftsock is analytical and enjoys chatting with anyone who will make toe contact. I, on the other foot, would rather make art than deep conversation.

(Don't ever ask me to count socks in the drawer, or calculate the percentage of savings at a clearance sale. Pure torture.) Give me a creative assignment, though, and Whoa Momma! I can think of a dozen ways to make myself useful, like dusting furniture...or transforming myself into a sock monkey for the kiddos.

But I digress. Back to the story...

So Leftsock deserted me and headed for deeper, soapier waters at the bottom of the washing machine. I draped myself around the agitator, where a few of us Rightsocks like to congregate. Sometimes we'll count down the last sixty seconds before Spin cycle, the way they count down to the New Year in NYC every December 31. Hey, wipe that smirk off your face! It's the only social life I have, alright?

Oh, but this day was different. The usual line of eager socks milling around the agitator was interrupted in spots by flashes of a red cotton t-shirt. I saw blue jeans whiz by, too. Whoever let them into the hot-water whites load is in for a big surprise when Woman gets home.

Something was about to happen; I could feel it.

Mr. Absentminded should have known to sort whites and colored clothing into separate piles. But human nature reigned supreme, and he hurriedly stuffed me in with whatever he found in the hamper. I tried kicking, but alas...a sock without a foot is powerless. Where's the justice? (Don't get me started.)

Imagine my panic when he set the Speed knob to Extra Heavy. Woman never did it that way! She never would have combined her delicate whites in with Man's sweaty red t-shirt or his brand-new jeans. Neverinamillionyears!

I braced myself for a wild ride, wrapping my cuff around my heel like I'd seen in the safety videos at the the sock factory. I thought, What would Seth Godin do? I tried hard to focus on calmly accessing my situation and acting accordingly.

But try as I might, when the final spin cycle ground to a stop with a sudden thump, I emerged forever changed.

In a moment of panic, I saw my comfortable cotton life flash before me. Oh nooo-oo!

I was PINK from heel to toe!

Life as I knew it disappeared the day Man pulled me out of the dryer.

"Whose girly PINK sock is this?" he snarled.

He tossed me aside like a used Kleenex. Leftsock is still bright white. He can pair up with any of the other sports socks in the drawer, like a spare wheel. But nobody wants a pink sports sock without a match. Off I went to the thrift shop.

The sweaty thrift shop guy stuffed me into a sock bin, where I've been living for the past three months. I'm smooshed together with socks from all walks of life. Old yellowed sports socks...uppity argyles...lace-edged toddler's anklets...cast-off tights from tired ballerinas. It's not so bad, other than the unbearable odor of this damp shed. How I miss the sweet scent of dryer sheets! (At night, after the moonlight shifts away from our window, we play several rounds of Name That Dryer Sheet! It's one of few diversions we enjoy here in the thrift shop annex.)

Life will go on. I'll survive...a little threadbare, perhaps, but some have it worse than me. Just look at ol' What's-his-cuff over there by the door. Speckled wool work socks, frayed at the top but still usable as a sleeping bag for the mice.

Ok, so I've received your emails here in the sock bin. I know what you're saying. I get it, ok?

Yes, you're right. I have been cranky! I'm tired of those ignoramuses who continue putting us socks through the wringer, without sorting us before loading! In fact, I'm outraged. It's enough to make a grown sock sweat.

Some of those people at least ask for help...but alas, it's much too late. Look at the grief they cause us.. I ask you, is life fair?

Socks of the world, unite! It's time we raise our cuffs and thumb our heels at those who would look down their agitators at us. This crass behavior must stop! Call your manufacturer and demand an explanation! Push for legislation that would require full laundering instructions on each package.

Together we can make a difference for socksterity.