Sock-Apocalypse!
It was early. It seemed a day like any other day. I realized I had been sitting in my desk chair for about 15 minutes waiting for the coffee to jolt through my appendages and spark my tired limbs into motion. What time is it? What day is it? Why do I have a headache? Do I have a job? A wife?
I call it the morning shuffle. I have friends that awaken at the crack of dawn and spring out of bed and into action to get ready for their day like air raid sirens are going off. I on the other hand tend to wake up and look around and wonder who I am. Then I become sad that sleepy time is over and the day is ahead. Getting out of bed for me is often a tragedy. I am not sure what coming out of a coma might be like, but I guess that my every morning must be something remotely similar. If coffee doesn’t happen within minutes I risk the chance of slipping back into slumber. I must keep moving.
Then it happens...as I sit back in my office chair I sip my morning cup of java and begin to feel like this day might actually happen. I listen to the quiet of the house and the panting of the yellow, drooling Labrador licking my calf. Wait! I hear something! I suddenly snap myself back into the present - I realize the Macaroni Wife is up wandering the halls. Oh, I am married. I listen intently for a moment, like a deer in the woods waiting to hear a stick crackle. Sounds come from one room and then another. She is really moving like she has a plan, she is zig-zagging back and forth through rooms like she is really looking for stuff. Relax, you live here. Try to be ready, what stuff could she be looking for? Here it comes, huffing and puffing and the sounds are getting closer – Oh Geez! She is coming this way – Look busy!
She comes around the corner and looks at me for a moment, likely in the hopes that she had caught me knitting her Christmas gift, painting my toenails or sleeping upright in my chair. When you’ve been caught barely alive, highly disheveled in a mental stupor, wearing boxers and a t-shirt still covered with last night’s spaghetti sauce, it’s hard to look like you were busy doing something purposeful. Be still. Don’t speak, I thought to myself, maybe she doesn’t see you.
“What are you doing?” She asked as she assessed my hobo style appearance.
“What? Me? I’m not...huh?”
Although I hadn’t been doing anything, I suddenly felt like I should have at least been doing something. A sudden ‘Deer in the Headlights’ mentality sets in and I am in a tough spot. Let’s see, sort of quiet, can hear birds chirping, not wearing shoes, hair messy, un-kept, not combed, not sure what day it is, possibly morning or dusk, not wearing pants or socks yet. You can handle this. Have some grit man! You are, after all, the man of the house. Say it with confidence. Wait -Ah-ha!
“I was dusting,” I stated, disappointed that I hadn’t come up with something more believable.
“Dusting?” My wife questioned as she locks eyes in a look that clearly means there will eventually be some more explaining at a later date but that she doesn’t currently have the time to investigate. “I am doing laundry and I need ALL of it.”
No problem I am thinking. I can handle gathering laundry. Didn’t really do anything wrong, I am good. Head nodding, mojo happening, smirk starting – I am actually starting to feel pretty good about this day. Throw out a comment man. Let her know you are listening and that you care. You read somewhere that wives love that. “Here’s a shirt and yesterday’s pants. That’s all of it, although, I am missing almost all of my black socks. Do YOU know where they might be?”
“If you are missing socks then you lost them. I have done all of the laundry. ALL of it! Everything is finished except this load.”
My eyes narrowed. ‘Yea right,” I thought. What would I do with 12 pairs of black socks? They are clearly not in my sock drawer and not on my feet. How much of a Doof-a-saur do you think you married? What did you do, make a quilt or something? Poor socks. I thought quietly to myself as I pondered my wife’s evil plan for the remainder of my socks and probably also my unsuspecting underwear. She’s up to something. If you don’t have them and I don’t have them, where might they be?? So crafty, so sly, and yet so calm...when I find where she’s put them she will owe me an apology and perhaps a long, luxurious back rub - maybe even dinner and a movie. Not a girly movie either, but a good one of manly choice with car chases and bullets. Losing my socks...you will pay wife.
(Two Weeks later- Present day)
The sun says about 8:45 AM as it peers through the blinds. An eighty pound blonde dog snorts and snarls as he jumps around on the carpeted floor and throws his favorite red ball into the air. While I check e-mails at my desk the ball bounces off of my shoulder and rolls behind the nearby futon. Goofy dog, I thought. Although he tries, his fluffy canine girth is too large to fit beneath the frame of the futon to retrieve his ball. I pat him on the head, smirk and stretch over the edge to reach for his lost prize. Can’t quite reach, but wait, what’s this – a sock? Oh geez, it’s a pile of socks. It’s a pile of about 8, 9, 10....12.... no, 24 black, mostly (?) dirty socks. But how did she? My eyes widen, the reality of what I might have done is terrifying...is it possible that I somehow misplaced an entire pile of socks. Even more mysterious... how did the wife not see this epic pile of dirty socks and include me in the ‘pile of dirty black socks’ discussion that would surely have lasted for hours?
What do I do now? Oh geez man you are in trouble. You are sitting next to the contraband at the scene of the crime. The last load of laundry has been done man. You can’t just march out there with a bunch of socks that somehow appeared out of thin air. You will have to pay the price. You will have to explain what happened. You might have to own up to being a slob or being so disorganized that you actually lost 12 pairs of socks for almost 2 months. I have to make them disappear. I could bury them. I could burn them in the back yard when she goes to the store. I could flush them one at a time down the toilet. I could throw them away on trash day. Yea, that’s it - quick and clean and no trace of black socks anywhere.
Suddenly, footsteps outside my door, “Let’s go, we’re going to be late.”
In a moment of sheer panic, I shove 24 socks beneath the cushion of the nearby futon.
That was close. I don’t think she saw anything. Act natural.
Wait, we’re going somewhere? Yes of course, wife said we were going somewhere but you were daydreaming about what you would do if you actually owned a light saber and could fly. Figure it out in the car man, you always do. I sat for a moment and pondered the repercussions of 24, sad and dingy, dusty and infused with yellow dog hair, 2-month old, ‘lost’ socks finding their way to the laundry basket on a peaceful and serene Saturday morning. There’s going to be chaos. No, I thought....not today. Someday...someday you poor socks will find your way back to the laundry pile and maybe even my sock drawer. Sit quietly my little friends; I will come for you when it is safe.
