So when I decided to get my life in order, I started with the sock drawer. Needless to say, things had gotten out of hand recently. Polka dots with solids, knee-highs with ankle-highs, dress socks with athletic wear, laundered with soileds. An orgy of cotton and polyester spanning three drawers and a closet floor. It’s one thing to be filthy, it’s an entirely other thing to be disorganized. Pairing, filtering, and ultimately balling up matches into fists of fabric. The ones with holes were disposed of. It didn’t matter where the holes were, nor their bigness or smallness. A tidy life requires binary decision making. Holes? Trash it!
The dilemma arose with the misfits—the orphan socks. The smelly, holed, lone mismatches. Where should they go? Whose feet should they occupy? Can you donate socks? Will the homeless wear the used foot cardigans of an anonymous donor? I thought long and hard, putting myself in the sockless shoes of a luckless recipient. It seemed more than obvious that if someone landed a trash bag of unwanted socks at my naked feet I would probably say, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Despite my instincts, I piled the unwanteds in the back of my beat-up Camry. Together, the three of us (me, my car, and my socks) took a drive to the place where all unwanteds go, the ghetto. It was here that I was sure to spot a temporary home for my worn-out foot garb. Sure enough, I did.
Without a second thought, I dragged the white bag out of the ol’ jalopy and slung it over my shoulder like so many garbage bags. “Planet AID Clothes & Shoes” was painted in bold black letters on every face of the large, yellow, dumpster-sized metal box which looked and smelled a lot like an actual dumpster. I heaved the bag up and into the mailbox-mouth of the wretched receptacle and cleansed my hands with a short series of claps, upon which I immediately regretted the decision.