My husband is trying to gaslight me with Hanes socks.
I’m not kidding. The day will come when I am found hanging like a bat from the top bar of a laundry trolley, chewing on a Size 11-13 calf-length sweat sock.
My husband has hundreds of them.
And very few of them match.
We finally went to the laundromat yesterday. I don’t want to say that it’s been a long time, but I will tell you that top-rated TV series have debuted and been cancelled in the interim.
Needless to say, we had bags and bags and bags of clothes to wash. I’m actually ashamed we own so many clothes, but since we’re awful at keeping up with the laundry, we need to have an abundance of shirts, pants, and underwear to keep us going.
One entire bag contained nothing but socks.
And it’s my job to fold them.
There’s actually a very good reason for this. I have a bad back, and I can’t stand at a table folding laundry nicely for more than five minutes or so.
Jeff, bless his heart, can still do this, so he is responsible for folding the shirts, pants and knickers… none of which need to be matched to anything.
I get to sit on a nice hard plastic bench, and pull socks from a trolley, which I then match and drop into a bag at my side.
As soon as the first dryer stopped spinning, I knew it was time to take my station. He emptied it, filled a trolley with white socks, and brought them over to me.
This man needs to acquire a taste for going barefoot… or at least stop wearing two pairs of socks inside his work boots.
I could not believe how many socks were sitting in front of me.
But I dug in.
I pulled out a nice white crew sock with a narrow-waled ankle, a ½ inch top seam, and gray heels and toes.
Then I pulled out a white crew sock with a wide-waled ankle and a gray sole. This was followed by a white crew sock with a ¼ inch top seam and gray heels and toes, reinforced with red stitching. The next one had a Hanes logo in red. Others had a Hanes logo in gray.
I didn’t count the variants. Trust me, there were many.
I started out carefully and conscientiously, sorting carefully, and rejoicing when I was able to make a match in all twelve essential dimensions, like the guy from eHarmony. However, as my patience and my eyesight began to wear thin, I got sloppy. Thin wale vs. medium wale? Who cares! Reinforced toe vs. let’s-hope-for-the-best? That’s fine.
Nobody sees socks inside people’s shoes anyway, and my husband is not the princess forced to sleep atop a pea. He is NOT that sensitive.
It took me a good 45 minutes to match up all those stinking socks, and I only had one left over without a partner.
“I’m done, Jeff! Put them in the car.”
“Oh, Good! The you can start on my black socks!”
I felt a sizzle in the back of my neck. It sounded just like a loose power cord sputtering at the edge of the socket.
He brought over a trolley filled to the brim with black crew socks.
“Don’t worry. They’re all the same.”
IS HE BLIND?
Some said Hanes in red, some in gray. Some had a funky blue and red cross logo; some had no logo at all. Each one had a different sole. No two were the same shade of black; obviously, these bloody things fade differently and independently.
I stared at my husband in desperation.
“Really?” I asked, piteously.
“Oh, come on. It’s no big deal!” he said. “My mother used to match socks for relaxation!”
That explains so much about him and his family.
I’d rather relax by napping on barbed wire!
But I was not going to start a row in the middle of the laundromat, and set a bad example for all the other immigrants, who stared at me every time I spoke in English to the tall, fair-haired man that kept bringing me socks.
I folded. I stewed. I folded.
And then I finished.
Well, I sort of finished. I had three socks left over.
“I’m done!” I told him.
“What about those?”
“Look! They’re completely different.”
“That’s all right,” he said. I have a drawer at home filled with orphan socks. One of these days you’re going to help me sort them, and we’ll see if we can make any matches.”
He said “matches.”
I’m going to set fire to his dresser.