My sock was blue.
Yes, by that, I mean that was its color, but it was also its mood. the sock was blue because it was all by itself.
Lonely, I mean. I can relate. I've been all of my adult years alone. I last asked a brunette cutie to go to a local restaurant with me after the football game. She responded by saying “she couldn’t be married to no preacher.”
Hmm. That was funny. I didn’t know I had proposed.
I am not smart and I am not a violent person. But, one of these days, if I ever find out who wrote the book of love, I think I will punch him in the nose. I asked my best, good friend and personal guidance counselor over on Johnson Street for some advice. He always has the right advice.
He told me to do something irrational like eat an actual artichoke and do the hokey pokey and turn myself around. Or was it the Macarena?
As intelligent as that sounds, it is probably in the book of love, too.
Anyway, I digress. That’s a story for another time like when, perhaps, I am blue as my sock both by color and loneliness.
My sock’s problem is it can’t find its footmate.
I’m never sure if it is right or left, but one of the socks, whether right or left, had left. See how confused you get when you read the book of love.
The last time I am sure the blue socks were together were when they were on my feet.
At, least, I think so. They were probably in the clothes hamper together, but that’s where I lost track of them.
They did not stay together after that.
I am not sure if the separation took place with the whites and colors or with the dress and work clothes.
All I know is, they were not together when the laundry was finished.
After I opened the dryer door, there it was, all alone and sitting by itself .
I am not good at math, but I know that socks come in pairs, which means there are two of them. I think. No companion with it.
Later, it was by itself on the bed. Finally, I hung it over a box sitting on my dresser.
I could sympathize with it being alone, but I had work to do.
I searched high and low in my room, in the hamper, in the hall between my house and the utility room and nothing.
I found a couple of spiders and an ink pen, but no sock.
The missing sock is still gone.
Perhaps there is a sock eating kooky bugaboo hiding out in the washer. Maybe it got zapped by some cosmic fire as Ray Stevens once sang. Truth is, I don’t really know.
Perhaps the sock is still in the washer, hiding out with Bigfoot, the Abominable Snowman and the Loch Ness Monster.
If we can put a man on the moon, and invent such wonderful things as Zax sauce, Doritos and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, then surely we can make a sockcatcher to rescue them from the washer and dryer.
I don’t know about all that.
All I know is I don’t understand love. I’m a few bricks shy of a load and I’m a sock short of a pair.
