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New Socks
Probably due to the same inherited, residual post-depression era guilt that leads me to clean my plate (it's either going in the trash or in my stomach - it's not like starving Africans are any better if I'm fatter and take a bigger shit), I hold onto old socks well beyond their rightful expiration date. Not until the last life is drained from the elastic, not until my skin tone is discernable through the heel, not until countless washings have fully eroded their youthful plushness and they have the feel of corrugated cardboard will I discard a pair of these invaluable undergarments.
As I was folding my laundry this morning and applying strict scrutiny to a beleaguered old pair of Hanes crew socks, I experienced a sense of anxious trepidation as I weighed the fate of this particular pair of faithful pedal servants. As I held one of the socks within an inch of my right eye so that I might better inspect the toe seam, I was overcome by a massive epiphany:
"WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING? Jesus Christ! These things cost like a fucking dollar! If there is any question, throw them away, you cheap, stupid bastard! What the fucking fuck!?! Do you realize how fucking pathetic you are? Think about how casually you will order an $8 well drink at a bar or buy a magazine or and ice cream cone. What magic allows this scrap of cotton to reduce you to such a state of consternation! It's a fucking dollar, your stupid, stupid shit!"
I'm off to the store. I might even drop $20!
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Do it. Don't look back. Socks are God's gift to your feet.
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