Warning: Sap is for the sapless
Folding my clean laundry fresh out of the dryer has always been therapeutic for me. Music in the background helps me to not think about just how mundane a task it is; manual labor in the foreground helps me to not think about just how many other mundane, though more important, tasks I could (should) be doing. So, I'm free to wander in my thoughts while having more to do than stare at the ceiling. Voila: novelty entertainment that can only happen as often as doing my laundry happens. Given my laziness, such entertainment is indeed a rare treat.
This entry is about my socks. Less specifically, this entry is kind of a recap of my mind's aimless 2:30-am meanderings that took place while folding my socks. Five loads of my laundry sat in the dryers downstairs waiting to be removed and folded. That three of those five loads included socks - whites, colors, and bright colors, in case you wondered - is a pretty funny thing to be able to admit.
Folding my laundry: shirts, being most prone to wrinkling, were first, followed by pants, and boxers were carelessly thrown into the drawer next. Finally, only a pile of socks was left in the middle of my floor. The peak in the center probably reached halfway up my shins. Damn. I didn't really want to start systematically disassembling the strangely-beautiful mound of colors and clashing patterns. Near the top were red, yellow, and green argyles twisted around and - thanks to lovely static electricity - stuck to green and black stripes which look a lot less out of place there than they do on my feet. Shocking.
As beautiful as it was, I can't imagine it'd be beautiful to trip over it in the middle of the night and break my face. It had to go before I could go to sleep. Whites are usually the hardest to match, but I got lucky and quickly matched up two white socks with the Adidas logo on them. My only green socks were both spotted easily and matched together. The unmatched pile shrinks.
Remember Taipei, or MahJongg, those annoying tile-matching games that came with old versions of Windows? The closer you get to the end, the faster you go… until you find out that you won’t win.
Tonight, I didn’t win. A lone sock was left unmatched. Of course, it couldn't have been a plain white sock. It couldn't have been a sock whose partner had a hole in it, nor could it have been a sock with a horrible stench that was impossible to get rid of, leaving me with no choice but to throw it in the trash and forget about it. No, please, Murphy would throw a fit if the sock gods were to let me off that easy. The Law says that if I'm missing any socks at all, I must be missing just one sock out of my favorite pair. Missing both would at least save me from being taunted. Sitting in the center of my floor is a piece of woven cotton, missing its complement.
If yellow socks had feelings, they’d be happier running around in pairs rather than lying around idly, more or less alone. There are other socks around, of course. But its color sets it apart from the rest, so that it doesn’t quite fit with any other socks to form a harmonious pair. It’s bright fucking yellow. It’s bright yellow, and it’s missing its better half (its better half being the sock in the pair that doesn’t have a hunch punch stain). Put them together, and bright is no longer the word. They glow.
And, as kind of an appendix, or at least a side note, I should thank Ramy's buddy info for giving me airport flashbacks:
“i was looking back
to see if you were looking back
to see if i was looking back at you”
This entry is about my socks. Less specifically, this entry is kind of a recap of my mind's aimless 2:30-am meanderings that took place while folding my socks. Five loads of my laundry sat in the dryers downstairs waiting to be removed and folded. That three of those five loads included socks - whites, colors, and bright colors, in case you wondered - is a pretty funny thing to be able to admit.
Folding my laundry: shirts, being most prone to wrinkling, were first, followed by pants, and boxers were carelessly thrown into the drawer next. Finally, only a pile of socks was left in the middle of my floor. The peak in the center probably reached halfway up my shins. Damn. I didn't really want to start systematically disassembling the strangely-beautiful mound of colors and clashing patterns. Near the top were red, yellow, and green argyles twisted around and - thanks to lovely static electricity - stuck to green and black stripes which look a lot less out of place there than they do on my feet. Shocking.
As beautiful as it was, I can't imagine it'd be beautiful to trip over it in the middle of the night and break my face. It had to go before I could go to sleep. Whites are usually the hardest to match, but I got lucky and quickly matched up two white socks with the Adidas logo on them. My only green socks were both spotted easily and matched together. The unmatched pile shrinks.
Remember Taipei, or MahJongg, those annoying tile-matching games that came with old versions of Windows? The closer you get to the end, the faster you go… until you find out that you won’t win.
Tonight, I didn’t win. A lone sock was left unmatched. Of course, it couldn't have been a plain white sock. It couldn't have been a sock whose partner had a hole in it, nor could it have been a sock with a horrible stench that was impossible to get rid of, leaving me with no choice but to throw it in the trash and forget about it. No, please, Murphy would throw a fit if the sock gods were to let me off that easy. The Law says that if I'm missing any socks at all, I must be missing just one sock out of my favorite pair. Missing both would at least save me from being taunted. Sitting in the center of my floor is a piece of woven cotton, missing its complement.
If yellow socks had feelings, they’d be happier running around in pairs rather than lying around idly, more or less alone. There are other socks around, of course. But its color sets it apart from the rest, so that it doesn’t quite fit with any other socks to form a harmonious pair. It’s bright fucking yellow. It’s bright yellow, and it’s missing its better half (its better half being the sock in the pair that doesn’t have a hunch punch stain). Put them together, and bright is no longer the word. They glow.
And, as kind of an appendix, or at least a side note, I should thank Ramy's buddy info for giving me airport flashbacks:
“i was looking back
to see if you were looking back
to see if i was looking back at you”