For months, it has been sitting there, taunting me from the bottom of my hamper …
… one black dress sock.
It’s not like I have a shortage of black dress socks. I usually only wear them to work two or three days a week, and — mostly by virtue of them having been an easy Christmas gift for years — I have more pairs than I can possibly use.
I actually think there may be a few pairs, still in the wrapper, in a storage bin in my closet.
No, Rogue Sock was a symbol of a failure of organization.
I do most of the dishes and the laundry in our house, both of which lend themselves to my desire for routine. (Go ahead and say I’m anal. It’s OK.)
Much like the cups, bowls and plates have to go in the dishwasher before anything else (although I don’t have a specific silverware pattern), an important component to doing the laundry is starting and ending with the same number of socks.
If a sock comes out of the dryer without its partner, it goes back in until its match is dry. If Rogue Sock persists, I will pull clothes out of the basket and unfold them to see if it’s attached to something else by static cling or possibly up a pant leg.
And if that still doesn’t produce a match, Rogue Sock sits in the bottom of the hamper until its partner emerges.
I usually do laundry on the weekends, but because we’re headed to my wife’s college reunion, we wanted to wash a few things last night.
Key among them was our bathrobes — important when you’re staying in dorms, doubly important when you’re the husband of an women’s college graduate — but I also threw in some gym clothes.
First came the Dinner Party — dresses my wife washes separately because they can’t go in the dryer, so she hangs them around our dining room table, hence the name — and then I threw in my stuff.
And when it was all done, there was a problem. One of my black Nike athletic socks had gone rogue, and tearing up the already-folded clothes didn’t solve the problem.
Of course I had lost a sock. Because there were so few clothes, I just carried them to the laundry room instead of properly putting them in a basket, which means I was destined to drop one somewhere along the line.
As a last resort, I took a peek in the few inches of space between the washer and dryer. Something in there looked black, so I reached down, and lo and behold, out came my Nike sock.
Problem solved! But I also noticed that there was still something that looked black in there.
No … it couldn’t be. Right?
But it was! I had finally found the partner to the sock that had been living in the bottom of my hamper!
I washed all three socks — the two dust-covered ones retrieved from between the washer and dryer and the one from the hamper — by hand in the sink, dried them and paired them off with their partners.
It’s not nearly as interesting as the saga of Molly Knight and her possum, but I was still way more excited than any reasonable person should be about this.