Sock It To Me

Both of my children, who share the same genetic heritage, also share a quirk that vexes me on a daily basis. I'm not talking about their uncanny imitation of all of MY bad habits (though that's in the top ten.) It's their inability to tolerate the slightest misalignment of SOCK molecules.

My daughter, Abby, has it the worse of the two, and laments "wicky socks" at the precise audio frequency that they use to perform non-invasive lobotomies.

"My socks are WICKY!"

I hear it maybe three million times a day. And all must STOP, until the situation is rectified to her satisfaction - four pairs and twenty re-alignments later. This, from a girl who sports a perpetual wedgie.

It takes upwards of three years to get out of the house in the morning. You know, somebody once wrote that famous tale "The Princess and the Pea." It SHOULD have been "The Princess and the Sock." Now THAT would be worthy of The Grimms (pun intended.)

Repeated adjustments are usually my only option. But after 20 or so refusals on the same sock, I usually just toss them in the "charity" bin. Some non-royal child would surely be happy to come into such pristine footwear.

I've tried buying different varieties of socks - thin, thick, cotton, polyester, stretchy, firm, knee-high, ankle-high, and even the ones with separate toes (patently refused.). The biggest criterion being the SEAM and its ability to be felt AT ALL, in the minutest way, in the toe-region. Must withstand compression without creating lumps, and have no sloppy edges (technically referred to as: stringy thingys.) But just TRY going into the sock department and finding 1) knowledgeable assistance, 2) craftsmanship, or 3) a salesperson that knows what "wicky" means.

I've been in every sock department from Wal-Mart to Gap to Neiman Marcus (Neiman Marcus! Can you imagine?) I figure given the time I spend messing with them, and considering even minimum wage, I could buy them from Tiffany's and still break even. Unfortunately, though, Tiffany's doesn't make socks.

Once in a while I reach the end of my rope, and decide that it might not KILL her to go sockless. After all, she's clearly demonstrated the inclination to inform me immediately of her every discomfort. If her feet get cold or sore, I'm bound to hear about it. So what if it's winter? Open-toed sandals? Fine!

Then, of course, I get those accusing glares from "good Samaritans" at Wal-Mart. Where are her socks? What kind of mother ARE you?!?!?

I smile, and say "Be my guest…"