Cutting Socks

It is 12:19 am and Lucy and I have spent another riveting Friday night watching "Mobile Home Disasters" on CMT, followed by Lucy fretting about the apartment while I study. And it was Lucy's fretting that actually inspired me to write something tonight.

I have a test on the "Killer App" in my information systems class on Tuesday. Its a pretty interesting book, for any geek interested in IS and business. Of course the test has been on the syllabus all semester, but I didn't try to buy it until two weeks ago. Imagine my surprise when the university bookstore didn't have it in stock and Barnes and Noble told me it was out of print. I ended up buying it from Amazon and paid three times as much as normal to get it in time for my test. Well, it hasn't shown up and now I have been reading it on the internet, which is awful.

Word to the wise never ever decide to read textbooks online.

So, while I am reading and intently attempting to improve myself through higher education Lucy began to pontificate on the extreme psychological power of socks.

Men, listen up. Women apparently, through millennium of evolution, or intelligent design - take your pick, have developed a deep and rewarding relationship with their socks that we, as men, can only hope to match.

Women can establish their entire sense, well maybe a significant portion,
of self worth on the current state of their stockings. This seemingly innocuous garment determines whether a woman greets her day with passion, gusto, and energy or with frumpy disdain.

Imagine, if you will, a potent phallic symbol such as a really awesome guitar or brand new baseball bat. Just holding it makes you feel powerful, you know you could hit something really hard or look like you have some desirable musical talent. We, as men, use these things to tell other people that we are better then they are.

Women use socks to assure themselves that they are everything they hope to be. Nobody in their right mind pays any attention to the socks of another person for more than a micro second, and in these cases it is usually when they are mismatched. But to a woman's psyche knowing they have a killer pair of knee-highs on elevates their self worth to the upper echelons of social standing. Because socks are the one pointless aspect of fashion, having the right socks means that your world is complete. You have accomplished everything else and now you only have to worry about what makes you especially special.

This fascinating relationship between women and footwear became clear to me as Lucy described in detail the immense joy she found in destroying old socks. Every morning for weeks she had dreaded opening her drawer to find a rotting supply of saggy, holey, worn-out socks. Her whole day would be ruined because of the incessant reminder of her failure as a woman due to this embarrassing aspect of her wardrobe.

As she sat next to me cutting up old socks into cleaning rags her eyes would twinkle, the corners of her mouth would be raised in maniacal smile, and the potent fumes of estrogen seemed to intoxicate her. She told me with triumph that tomorrow she would be able to face her day happily.

And I am proud of her. Who wouldn't salute their spouse for accomplishing something important to them.

But here is the kicker.

I freaking bought her brand new socks 7 months ago!!! THEY ARE STILL IN THE PACKAGING.

Women are the most confusing creatures on the planet.