dances with wools

Things I Hate:
Injustice. Litterbugs. Mosquitos. Wintergreen. Comb-overs. Fluorescent lighting. People who have to "one up" your stories. Having only vowels in a Scrabble game. The smell of sardines. The lyrics to "Milkshake". Using "would OF" and "could OF" when you mean "would've" and "could've". Cheese Whiz. Not being able to find my keys. Middle school girls who say "I love you, baby" to their boyfriend of 3 days. Pumping gas in the winter. Four friends - three final pieces of sushi. Four family members - one bathroom. Yogurt. The guy who decided Pluto could no longer be a planet. Getting all comfy in bed and realizing I forgot to pee. And any show with "housewives" in the title - desperate or otherwise.

But the thing I hate most?

Socks. Darn them.

Cotton. Wool. Nylon. Striped. Solid. Argyle. Athletic socks. Trouser socks. Ankle socks. Knee socks. Crew socks. Toe socks. They are evil in its purest form. Be a-frayed. Be very a-frayed. Masquerading as "essentials", "comfort items", "fashion accessories", they are nothing more than vile, wretched, sweat-inducing, pedicure-hiding, toe-enclosures. AND. I. HATE. THEM. Wearing them is like forcing my feet to go spelunking against their will. Cruel and unusual punishment. And to add insult to injury, I'm pretty sure some of my toes are claustrophobic.

Three-fourths of the year my toes are happy little campers. Strappy sandals or microfiber mules or casual clogs - all sock-free. But then winter sets in and my choices are roast or freeze. And since I don't particularly look good in blue . . .

Besides, my oh-so-comfy Clark winter-weather loafers require socks. So, for Christmas, I asked my children to buy me socks. Cute ones. Cute enough to get your attention, but not so cute that you lose respect for me. And comfortable ones, though I know in my heart there are no such things. But my children refused. Kacey even went so far as to Facebook her brother saying, "Do NOT buy our mother socks. No matter WHAT she says she wants, she hates socks. You don't want to be remembered forever as the 'child who bought her those stupid, awful, toe-torture devices'" . . . or something like that.

So, I broke down and bought my own socks. And I broke down further and wore my own socks.

I think I may have to start a humanitarian group called "PETF" - People for the Ethical Treatment of FEET, or maybe the ASPCT - the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Toes.

The absolute worst is sleeping in socks. I don't know if it's the fact that my bed is on the north wall of the house, or that my cotton sheets lack warmth, or that I frequently sleep alone, or that I'm just getting older and my circulation lacks oomph. Regardless, I find myself often wearing socks to bed these days. But at some point during the night, poet Emma Lazarus calls to me . . . "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. . . " and my right big toe grasps the top of my left sock and frees my left foot and my left foot returns the favor by stepping on the toe of the right foot so my right foot can free itself, then both feet push the socks out of the bed and into the floor while my ten toes do a little middle-of-the-night emancipation dance. And for some bizarre reason, despite the fact that the kitchen is clean, the towels are always tri-folded, the sheets are washed every Monday, and the dvd's are alphabetized . . . the socks remain in the floor until their services are required again.

I don't know why. Oh yeah, because I hate them.