I apologize, guys! I was going to post something about writing, but I had to spend another day glued to a chair, working our county's run-off election, so I just whipped this up. I hope you enjoy it! In case, you're wondering--you really aren't, I know--the election was much like last time, except our ward captain abandoned us, so I got stuck filling out paperwork for two precincts. *twirls finger* I hate paperwork. I hate paperwork almost as much as I hate lying footwear.
This makes me tear up to say it, but my socks are liars. *pauses to dab eyes* They are unrepentant, shameless liars! Liar, liar, pants on fire, Mr. Socks!
I am getting ahead of myself. I'm sorry. It just upsets me when my socks are deceitful. What happened, you ask? Why does Zella accuse her socks of bearing false witness? Aren't socks by nature truthful creatures? What motives could socks have for lying? Can socks even talk? And why did Zella name her socks something as atrocious as Mr. Socks?
I recently had to buy some new socks. My sock supply has decreased in recent months. I am not sure if they have a hidey-hole they retreat to or what the deal is, but my socks are disappearing at an alarming rate, and the ones that remain are holey. No, they are not saintly socks bestowed with spiritual powers. My socks have no religious affiliation. (On the contrary, my socks are apparently diabolical and quite criminal in nature.) They are just full of holes and wear marks, and they are falling apart.
Monday, I left for work about an hour early to buy myself some new socks. This is necessary, because I live in a very rural area and it takes me roughly thirty minutes to get to town. Also, I am picky about my feet and what goes on them, so I wanted plenty of time to buy my new sock soul mates. My socks must be 100% cotton, black or dark blue in color, plain, and neither too short nor too tall in height. In case you're wondering, I am not picky about the stylishness of my clothes, not in the least (I am notorious for wearing mismatched socks and dressing like a slob, in fact), but I have some medical issues that make me picky about my feet's comfort--and let us not forget I am too lazy to ensure they match my outfit-- hence the rigid requirements.
I usually don't shop for clothes in a store--that's what garage sales and Goodwill are for, my dears--so I went to our local Wal-Mart--the same one I encountered the Bratz dolls in--and walked around for several minutes trying to locate the socks. When I found them, I was mortified. The only socks available were shocking neon colors of some unidentified but most certainly not cotton fabric with disturbing plaid, striped, or polka-dotted designs, and they looked too small for my feet. What is a pathetic nerd to do when confronted with such footwear? My eyes were starting to hurt from this visual assault when I noticed that the socks were all marked as "Girls' Socks". Not "Ladies' Socks." I was in the kids' section. Oops!
I didn't want to admit that I had no idea where the women's socks were, so I went to the counter and nonchalantly asked for the socks. I assumed since I am always mistaken for a thirty year old, the clerk would automatically point me in the right direction. For once in my life, I assumed right. She pointed me toward the women's socks, which were the direct opposite direction of where I had been.
*stifles sob* This is where my tale becomes tragic. *blows nose* I circled the three sock aisles repeatedly, searching for socks that met my requirements. Alas, I could find none. There were a lot of hose (which I dislike) and colorful socks (which are right out!) and those little socks that have their edges below the ankles (ICK!) and some socks that went to the calves (NO!). But no socks that met my requirements. I began to slightly panic, because I had to be at work in twenty minutes, no socks were suitable, and I have a serious depopulation problem in my sock drawer.
Just when I was beginning to think that the socks of the world hated me and that no socks in the world loved me and that my poor little, erm, not so little for a petite woman's, feet would be unprotected for eternity, my little nerd eye spied some black cotton socks on the bottom rack. I grabbed the package and was delighted by two facts:
1. There were ten socks in the package and they cost less than the packages that only held six. (I am notorious for being a miser, so this made my skinflint heart beat with joy).
2. The pictures of the socks showed them as coming roughly up to one's mid shin, which is exactly where I like my socks.
I was elated. I would have danced a jig if someone had not been standing there. I grabbed two packages and scurried to the self-check out.
Once I paid for my new treasures and carried them out to my car, I quickly drove to work. I arrived, parked, and stared longingly at my socks for some time. I really wanted to wear a pair of my new socks to work, I thought I deserved to wear my new socks to work, and, gosh darn it, I was wearing my new socks to work. I tore into the package and pulled out a pair . . . only to discover they had . . . had . . . lied to me!
My socks were not shin length. Those Benedict Arnolds were ankle length. :( THEY LIED! I feel betrayed. What has the world come to when you can't trust your socks to be straightforward about their length? They were the only socks that even remotely matched my description, so I would have bought them, anyway. But this . . . this treachery? It is inexcusable. *cries in corner*
But, if you want me to be honest with you, I like my new socks because they are comfortable, though I am not sure I could ever truly trust them. (Or, rather, I would like them if they weren't lying liars who lied about their true lying selves.) ^^
What are your feelings on socks? Are you picky or will you wear anything?