I'm sorry I leave my socks on.

I'm sorry I leave my socks on.

I think about it every time, but there's just no seductive window for sock removal.

It distracts me. Does it distract you?

As a child I read this historical romance that took place during World War II, in which a Jewish woman married a stranger in order to receive safe passage out of Vienna. When they go to consummate the marriage, she makes sure to remove her socks first. He does the same, and she secretly wonders if he, too, had read somewhere that socks should never be removed last.

I haven't read that book in probably 15 years, but I think about that scene every single time.

But still... I still leave my socks on.

Why?

Yes, sometimes my feet get cold. In fact, my feet are cold right now. Do you want ice cubes pressed up against you?

And I truly do think it's inconvenient to take them off. The bending over. The balancing on one foot. That's neither efficient or cute.

I also hate my feet. The three dark hairs that grow on each big toe, the roughness of my calloused heels, and my toenails that never grow at the same pace. I haven't had a pedicure in three years. Do you want jagged nails scratching you? How about sandpaper heels?

Personally? I'd go with the socks.

You've never said anything. Do you pretend not to notice in order to save me the embarrassment? Do you not care in the slightest? Or are you hiding how deeply the socks trouble you?

If you do notice them, what exactly do you think they say about me? That I'm simply practical? Confident? Urgent? Self-conscious? Or just lazy?

I've considered that maybe they mean nothing at all. There's a very real possibility that I am the only one assigning them any moral weight. They are, in fact, just socks.

Over the years, I have tried to find the right time and way to take them off gracefully. I firmly believe it cannot be done. The moment I bend forward, all mystery leaves the room. I become someone's aunt retrieving a dropped coupon. If I hop on one foot, I look concussed. If I peel one off with the other foot, I'm going down. Literally. Face first.

Are you prepared to catch me in that moment?

Some people might say socks are unacceptable, but no one complains about watches. Smart watches especially. Necklaces? Earrings? A t-shirt even? Sometimes a literal baseball cap makes it through an entire encounter and society shrugs. But some black cotton ankle socks? Suddenly we are purists.

My socks have seen too much. They have been present for first dates, break ups, questionable reunions, and one broken futon I never quite knew how to address. They have been kicked under beds, lost in crumpled sheets, and recovered from bathroom floors like evidence. If anyone deserves to be left alone here, it is them.

The truth is, the socks are not the problem. They are two tiny bodyguards stationed at the edge of my vulnerability. They do nothing, of course. They protect no one. But their presence suggests a system is in place. They let me be mostly exposed while maintaining the illusion that I have boundaries, standards, and perhaps a retirement account.

Maybe that fictional woman in wartime Vienna removed her socks because some moments demand courage. Maybe I leave mine on because courage, like pedicures, requires scheduling. Either way, I am sorry. But unless you would like to help in a very practical sense, the socks are staying on.