The Day I Lost My Sock

Have you ever lost a sock? I’m not talking about some random wearable vessel of fabric that adorns your feet while imprisoned by your shoes.

I’m asking you if you’ve ever lost that sock you loved?

The one that has, in decade-long loyalty, always clung to its significant other after a load of laundry.

The one that has hugged your feet in the darkest and coldest nights, only to be recklessly tossed into the hamper in the most irreverent, foot-flicking way?

The sock that could, without a moments notice, self-destruct, tear the very fabric that holds itself together, and render your foot without its mercenary against bugs, hardwood floors, and out-of-blanket bed monsters?

I lost that sock.

I don’t know what happened. The moment I realized it was lost was so brisk: but the horror settled itself in like an imminent timebomb sure to wreck my heart.

Kind of like when you foresee the ending of a Netflix series, but you’re too cravenly to admit it to yourself; so you move on, watching the final few episodes in God-filled hope that the story’s motif flips on its side and reveals that the character you had a crush on doesn’t die.

But she does. The hot one always dies.

She was the protagonist (the sock, not Jessica Day from New Girl).

She prevailed as the leading role and victor in the daily adventures my feet would lead.

No puddle, no torrid summer asphalt, no poorly-filled concrete slab would cause this sock to falter.

She would always valiantly protect me: I her angel, she my sock beloved.

But alas, no story ends well. Even Jesus, the Lord and Savior of all existence, was crucified for our sins.

(What’s this about? Read more.)

The anatomy of the missing sock.

This sock was white: not that I would care about the color of its composite fabric (and frankly, many socks are now sold with chromatic designs, whether that’s rainbow, treble-striped with complementary colors, or a not-so-dull mixture of white and gray gradients. Classy.)

About half of my socks are white, the other black. What’s dire here, though, is that my black socks are running thin.

While concurrently true that my black socks are newer and thinner, because from my youthful days I have graduated, wisely, to socks with thinner linings–I still need my durable, long-lasting white socks to remain with me until my thirties.

I can’t summon enough prejudice to compare her to her peers, for her markings were indistinct.

Generally, when you buy socks, you buy packs: which means you are not fashioning for yourself a drawer-ful of snowflakes but copies–facsimiles of toe-enclosures with blurred personalities.

Each is bereft of its uniqueness, because all you care about is your sole.


But this sock I lost stood out. She earned her badge of courage the day I wore her: almost, she wore me. She wore my heart on her sleeve, if we can personify deeply enough. (Since we’re in the subject of articles, this is not too far-fetched, but we are edging dangerously close to lunacy.)

The ribs on on her neck, so to speak, abutted my Achilles tendon. (Granted, it was not a daily caress, as I am not a sordid man who wears socks consecutively.)

But it was sweet: a hot tub for my heels; and had she lotion at her disposal, the backside of my lower calf would be as soft as a baby’s bottom.

Okay, I found her.

Welp. This story ended more abruptly than the love your parents had for you the moment before you turned eighteen.

She, my love, my sock, has returned. To her I shall cleave, leaving mother and father in reverence to my Lord.

If you have ever had your heart broken because of an article of clothing, please do share below.