Today I had four extra black socks, two long and two short, none matching, that are being relegated to the Island of Mis-fit Socks that sits atop my husband’s dresser.
I surmise that each sock on the Island feels utterly alone in the world. I hope they can find solace and community there. They will wait, with longing and uncertainty, for their mate to arrive.
What each sock doesn’t realize is that his mate has most certainly already met her demise. After repeated washings and analysis, careful scrutiny of growing holes in toes and heels, that long-lost mate was deemed unsuitable and tossed either in the trash can or the Rags Bin in my laundry closet, where it will most assuredly never be used as a rag.
Occasionally, widowed socks are matched with other similar socks and re-introduced into circulation. But during the next sorting cycle, they will likely find themselves back in the Mis-fit pile while I decide what to do with them. I won’t remember that they were worn during the past week with socks of similar size and color, and I will set them aside in hopes of retrieving their mates at the next washing or when I unfold a fitted sheet to make the bed. I am hopeful that the lost sock will happily tumble out of a corner, where it’s been hiding with a dryer sheet, and I will be so relieved that I saved its mate on the Island.
A joyful reunion. A sense of accomplishment for me.
It could happen.
But the most of the time, I’m left wondering, Why must there be so many kinds of socks?