L...Lost Socks

It’s one of those mysteries of life, that place that lost socks go, never to be found again. I live alone, do my own laundry, have a specific spot for the ‘to be washed’ stuff, and though I am not particularly fussy about the wash, I do check the washer and dryer for anything left behind. And yet I still have lost two socks.

A few years ago I bought a package of black socks, eight pairs all the same, so no problem with mixing and matching. Then I bought two new pairs, black, with a relaxed cuff as the others were tight on my ‘fluid retention’ days.

Now you might ask, with all these same coloured socks, how I know I’ve lost a couple of socks. It seems the last pair I matched after the laundry had one with a regular cuff and the other with a relaxed one. Might still work for me as my left leg swells some, bad knee and all, and the socks all look the same...basic black.

My grandchildren have lost socks and seem to have given up on wearing a matched set. I think they consider the odd pairing to be a fashion statement. Oh, to be young and brave. I still remember the day I was at work and realized I was wearing one black sock and one navy, which is probably what moved me to do the all black thing.

Somewhere, in some alternate universe, those lost socks are all gathered, laughing as we mortals, forever doomed, search for our sock’s lost mate.