A Sock Story

The other day I had a hole in my sock that was driving me crazy.

It was in the perfect position to allow my big toe to be exposed and since it was tucked into my work boot, I sort of just let it go because taking off the boot, fixing the sock and then re-lacing the boot would be a pain in the ass.

But the damn toe just kept finding the hole in the fabric and I found myself thinking about it.

In sort of a literary way.

I thought about the hole in the sock being a symbol for things in life that stick in the old craw and won't shake loose no matter how hard you try.

"That's bullshit," I said.

I took off the shoe and turned the sock a little bit so that I wouldn't have to bother with it. The hole would still be there, mind you, but it would shift location and not cause a problem.

I went to two sites before the damn thing struck my mind again.

Somehow the sock had shifted and the big piggy was sticking out back through the hole.

Back to the literary mind:

Perhaps when we don't take care of a problem and just try to mask it, we make things worse. We can shift things around all we want, but unless we address the issue at hand, we're going to find ourselves back in the same place.

"Absolute bullshit!" I called out.

I took the boot off again. This time I examined the hole...it was really just a tiny hole.

There are so many little aggravations in life and if we hold onto a thought for too long it becomes bigger than it actually is.

I thought about lecturing my toe to stay clear of the opening. It didn't seem to matter which way I turned the sock; the stupid little hole would be right there.

I thought of my Dad actually confusing the piss out of me as a real young boy:

"Your socks are on the wrong feet," he said.

Then he guffawed as I made the switch.

Was there more to the hole in my sock than what was advertised?

Was it a symbol of some sort of frustration in my daily routine?

Would my beautiful wife darn it when I got home?

Didn't they darn socks in the olden days?

Don't you picture the old-time wife as a basic servant to a man, waiting on him hand and foot.

Rubbing his temples as he returns home after a trying day.

Just comforting the man as he rests?

My wife wasn't going to darn my sock.

As a matter of fact, it's sitting in the bottom of my Yankee trash can as I type this.

I stuck my finger into the small rip and pulled it apart, laughing wildly as it's sock life ended.

I could almost hear the relief in the sounds of the tear.

"Thank God," the sock sighed. "I don't have to go on those friggin' swollen toes no more. Besides, he had me on the wrong feet."