The Saga of the Unmatched Sock


It hides under the last pair of jeans in the laundry basket taunting me. I scan the room before I reach toward it with the same disgust that my son reserves for green beans. The unmatched sock is my nemesis.

Each one seems to ask a troop of unanswerable questions: Why are there so many of us? Where did we come from? What will happen to us?

I have only one answer: I don't know.

It seems so wasteful to throw them all away, but any practical reuses for which I have ideas seem unfortunately useless. I use old t-shirts and worn out flannel for dust rags. I don't wear make up to remove with (clean) old socks. My kids have no interest in sock puppets.

Besides, what if I think of the perfect purpose for a solitary sock only to have its mate surprise me by turning up in the trunk of the car or in the back of the pantry?

I sigh and surrender myself to the never ending saga of the unmatched sock. I toss the offending cloth in the overflowing bag with the others.

Love and peace, Rachel



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