I hate laundry day. I really, really do.
I know I’ve bitched and moaned about this previously and probably will again before my blogging days are all said and done, but I’ve just got to let the world know about the big tragedies I deal with in my life. Such as today’s earth-shattering calamity…sorting my socks.
You see, Faithful Readers, I own roughly 8,000 pairs of socks.
Of those I’d say about 7,985 of them are various plain white, athletic socks. Another five or so are knee-high baseball socks and the remaining ten pair are a combination of dress socks and “wacky“ socks from Old Navy.
Owning so many seemingly-similar socks would seem like a blessing on laundry day, despite making me look kinda lame every other day–at least according to some fashion-forward folks out there (see: Gray, Ryan)–but alas that is not the case.
You see, of my 7,985 plain white socks only about two-thirds actually have a partner sock anymore.
This is largely due to the ole Laundromat mythology that one sock will always disappear and/or the fact that I tend to put lots of holes in my socks and then send the holy sock packing and simply pair up the now-partnerless sock with a previously-partnerless sock to create a new mismatched pair.
Anyway, in addition to owning an abundance of mismatched pairs, I also have like 33 different styles of plain white, athletic socks. This means that I cannot just throw these bad-boys together all willy-nilly, but rather I’ve got to spend tons of time looking for each sock’s legitimate partner and/or mismatched partner.
This process takes long enough the way things are, but is only made worse when I try to account for the various stains in my socks and assume that two grass-stained socks or two socks blackened during muddy softball games are automatically a pair. This is almost never the case.
For whatever reason I always have one sock with a grass stain and it’s partner is still bright white and the other greenish sock is one of a completely different cut and length.
Long story, short…it takes me forever and a day just to sort through all of my plain white, athletic socks. And that makes me unahppy.
Sorting socks–much like my life, obviously–is hard.