My morning sifting of socks turned up a pair that I judged to be suited for my entrance into the world. Many men make sock choosing simple by stocking up on black, brown, or gray. For athletic wear, they like white socks, and they just can’t lie. But I am an artist, with more than 25 years of retail advertising experience. I don’t choose my socks to blend in, but to stand out.
My daily choice of foot coverings takes into consideration the color of my shoes, pants, and shirt. On this day, I selected a pair of blue green Bombas socks, with small red stripes on the back of the ankle; the stripes climb toward a red insect near the top of the sock. I was going to wear brown bucks with my burgundy pants and felt that the socks coordinated well. Sitting to pull them on, I noticed something that I had apparently ignored for the first three years that I had owned the socks: There were small letters near the toes. One letter was an “L,” the other was an “R.”
I have more than 50 pairs of festively decorated socks, a few pairs of white athletic socks and — waiting for the thrift store donation box — many pairs of business socks. Not once in the seven decades of my life have I ever had to consider which foot should receive what sock; socks are “one-size-fits-feet.” Some of my colorful socks have designs with a predictable pattern. My Nintendo-themed socks (a gift from a neighbor who said that her husband would never wear them) have characters that cover both socks in the same way. A pair of Hasbro socks has a graphic designed to show from the outside of each ankle. On the left foot, the graphic is on the inside of the ankle; on the right foot the graphic is on the outside of the ankle. No amount of shuffling will result in the graphic being displayed on the outside of each ankle, something that I consider to be a design flaw. But still: I own and wear the socks.
My flamingo socks have the pink birds arrayed all over the pair, my St. Patrick’s Day socks have the same text on each one. My Florida citrus socks have an overall pattern of oranges. My Thanksgiving socks show pumpkins and corn, my Christmas socks have ornaments, trees, and reindeer. I have a pair of socks that are festooned with images of fried eggs and bacon strips and another with black and white stripes below a constellation of multi-colored dots. When I am on “the green” of a pool table, the socks I am wearing have images of pool balls. The balls are on a burgundy background, but a pool player did not consult on the design. There are 15 balls in a standard 8-ball rack, but on my socks, there is no 12-ball. My 4-year-old granddaughter has “Clop socks” that mimic mine, and one pair has an arrangement of triangular shapes similar to a pair that I own.
I rummaged through my store of socks, looking for examples to bolster my argument that socks don’t come in “left” or “right.” I discovered a pair that did just that. My friends sent me socks with a graphic that reads “Cool-A** Grandpa,” a take on my grandparent name, “Cool Papa.” The legend is on the outside of each sock, and should I ignore the slip-on order, the words will be on the inside of each ankle and not visible to the ogling public. *sigh.*
Where is my left sock?
cjon3acd@att.net