Black Sock Down

It will probably come as no surprise to you that I wear comfortable shoes. No silver sandals or Manolique Blalocks or whatever those fancy-schmancy footgear devices are called. And as a wearer of comfortable shoes, I do not scrimp in the sock department. Cushy, sweat-wicking sheaths for my dainty tootsies are a necessity. Because I try not to flaunt what I've got, my wardrobe is at the opposite end of the Joseph's Technicolor Dreamcoat spectrum. Which means my crew socks are black.

Perhaps you are familiar with the expression, "A place for everything, and everything in its place." Nobody at my house has ever heard it. I try to parcel out my weekly chores to the boy young 'uns. A practice that yields mixed results. For instance, I sort, wash, dry, and fold the laundry. The Pony puts it away. His idea of "away" is a bit different from mine. So each week, I find my rolled-up socks stacked on a trunk at the end of my bed.

Upon arising, I stumble around the bedpost and grab a pair of those socks. It's convenient, actually, adjacent to my underwear that The Pony has also deposited on the trunk. Of course this harvesting of foundation garments takes place in the dark. Far be it from me to awaken Hick from his beauty slumber.

I keep that room as dark as if Dracula himself was sleeping the sleep of the undead, dreams of long-necked Burmese women dancing in his head. The voice of reason tells me that Hick will not notice if I turn on the light. Not with his head being buried under the quilt that exposes my feet all night long. And covered by my pillows that he is forbidden to touch. I know he grabs those pillows as soon as I get up. Because they are always messed up when I go to straighten them. I can never be sure, though, because the room is dark. But I make good use of circumstantial evidence in an argument.

Sometimes, this morning, for instance, I don't get a good grip on my comfy ebony crew socks. And they fall to the ground, to be searched for with bare feet. You don't expect me to bend over, do you? I might whack my head on the trunk. Better to ferret them out and grasp them with my toes than risk a concussion. Hick would never hear me fall. Not with his head under a quilt and two pillows, and his breather whooshing away. I would be like the proverbial tree in a forest.

Like fog on little cat feet, I creep into the bathroom. Set my socks on the counter and go about the business of making something this pretty look like a chump. Which is hard G-D work. Oops! That's Woody Harrelson as Billy Hoyle in White Men Can't Jump. What I meant to say is that I clean and clothe myself, then wake Hick so he can get ready while I take my morning chair nap.

Hick does not have little cat feet.