Socks

I like my socks to fit just right. They should be a little hard to pull on, like they’re reluctant - not that I would blame them if they were. At first they will seem too small, like they belong to someone else - a child perhaps? I work my thumbs down to the toe, bunching the sock in my hand and then working it slowly upwards. Material spools out by the inch, a slight hesitation passing the ankle and heel, until the foot is safely cocooned, snug and dry. This state of warm, fuzziness will suffer a great change throughout the day, but that is a concern for later. For now, diligent toweling has purged the shower’s spray from crevices and gaps. A hair dryer might have been more thorough, but I’m not obsessed.

My feet are clad early in the day, well before I have the energy to focus on anything beyond an arm’s length away. I mean - they’re all the way in the other end of my body; I have to fold practically in half, just to reach them. Why can’t I just pull socks on more easily, like I do a shirt? A shake of the wrist, a quick tug, and bam! I’m one step closer to accepted societal standards of public appearances. But the struggle with a sock assures me it fits properly; once I let go, they will snap in place and stay put, bound to the leg at the appropriate level, whether they are long or short or even those adorable little athletic booties.

The socks I wear have a preformed spot for the ankle, a little extra room sewn into the garment that accommodates the bony protrusions of the bottom and sides of the foot, without layering the top with folds of excess cotton, or nylon … or spandex (swanky!). This ensures my toes will be in alignment with the seam at the end of the sock, because my ankle will sit solidly in its pocket, ensuring my aim is true upon donning the sock, and maintain this harmonious position all day long. Gone are the days of adolescent trauma when, after considerable care was made to line the seam up correctly and place it overtop of the toes, a pair of “tube socks” would conspire to slowly, insidiously ease their way underneath the foot, to wreak havoc and raise blisters inside my Keds. Usually during gym class.

My socks also have ridges encircling various sections. Once I’ve wrestled the garment on, these serve to clench the foot ever tighter, like a corset for the foot. As with a corset, they serve to accentuate bodily curves while slowing blood flow. I just want my socks to stay up, but who says you can’t have sexy feet?

If a sock is allowed to wander, by letting the leg slide lazily through its halfhearted grip, it won’t stop until it has slithered all the way into the shoe’s most nether regions. I’m pretty sure it’s trying to escape. Little known fact : socks are horribly claustrophobic. Once it sees there is no way out, it panics, writhing about in a desperate bid for freedom, shattering the serenity of the shoe’s inner sanctum.

Why don’t my shoes keep the excess sock out? Because I wear them too big, with the laces drawn to a medium-low tension. Would you shove your head into a tight, dark, sweaty, leather hood all day? A foot’s job is hard enough - imagine walking around on your hands - wrist strain! Tendonitis! The least I can do is give them a breath of fresh air every now and then, while they’re down there navigating dog turds and hypodermic needles,

A wrinkled sock crowds the foot, making it feel as if a mutant growth = possibly a sixth toe - has suddenly appeared. It sounds outrageous, I know. But I’ve never actually explored the mysterious, dark world of the inner shoe - it’s dank and a little creepy in there - so who knows what’s normal and what isn’t? Maybe the spontaneous arrival of an extra toe is not outside the realm of possibility. Alien toes aside, the wayward sock is an unwelcome distraction, dominating my attention until it’s hard to do anything else, such as hold a coherent conversation … or walk in a straight line. Or think about anything else.

At first I try to fix the anomaly by lengthening my stride, and, between steps, I alternately point my toe then flex the ankle. I’m trying to coax the wrinkle out of the sock by stretching the area of skin that it covers - in effect, trying to lengthen my foot. What’s a little bodily disfigurement if it means I can walk without distraction? This is a bit of an overload in an already impaired mental state, and it looks as if I’ve lost control of motor functions and other processes. I haven’t yet, but if I don’t get this stupid sock to sit right in my shoe, I soon will. Unfortunately, this weird new stride only succeeds in pulling the sock down deeper into the shoe. The mutant toe now has a friend.

Once the sock has invaded, gaining a new foothold (sorry), I can no longer ignore the issue. That’s like trying not to look for a bathroom after a 24 ounce coffee. The only recourse is to pull off the shoe and yank the offensive wad of cloth up the leg as far as it will go. This affects the entire sock, however, pulling the pre-formed “heel pocket” out of the shoe, to spill over the back when the shoe is replaced. Now my foot has a banner. Or a tassel. The achilles tendon will feel a strange tickle as this foot-flag billows in the wind, but I bear it proudly; it hails my victory over the insidious textile that would otherwise usurp my foot space.

Reluctantly, I now tie the laces extra tight. Fashion sense aside, I know those pedo-pennants will find their way back inside the shoe, if the socks have their way. They don’t take defeat lightly (again, sorry) and will try to walk those wrinkles right back into my shoes in about fifty paces.

The at-home sock is a whole different beast. Where the public sock’s job is to be rigid and tight, the domestic version should be loose and unobtrusive, without the death grip. It shouldn't ravage the skin with etched patterns that remain, even hours after its removal. Which is not to say it should be too loose. A flimsy hold will cause it to slide down the leg during the short walk from den to kitchen, until an inch or more is dangling off the foot, drawing attention away from important decisions such as: chips or cake? Kombucha or scotch? The sofa’s comfort will not erase the distraction of droopy footwear. The mark of a quality domestic sock is one that says “I’m here for you, even if you don’t know it.”

Of course, this all could be avoided, if I walked around barefoot at home. But I’m a civilized human being. I wear shirts at weddings and socks at home.

Crucial to the survival of the domestic sock is the indoor shoe. I like to go with a nice slider. You slide right in and out, hence the name, and it is conducive to mindless relaxation with effortless discard, as well as speedy grab-and-go. The slightest tap from the rear will send them sailing across the room, however, as if escaping your smelly feet, so be careful as you navigate the dangers of the domicile.

And resist the urge to wear your sliders-and-socks combo out in public, even while running a “super quick errand” to the store. Make your sliders your at-home footwear. For public appearances, keep a pair of thongs on hand. These greatly reduce the ‘oops!’ of going out in socks and sandals. Unless you see no problem with this. If that's the case, we need to have a whole new discussion.