My husband, who has been on a sock jihad of sorts in our basement laundry room, has stuffed a large, black trash bag full of mismatched socks, ranging from plain white sports socks, to black dress socks and thigh-high soccer socks to novelty holiday anklets with black cats and candy canes. He secured the bag with a twist tie lugged it upstairs into the living room where I was sprawled out on the floor with the newspaper . “I’ve got a great idea for our next dinner party,” he announced as he dropped the bag squarely onto the MetroWest section. “We can invite our friends over to match socks. Every time someone matches a pair, they have to drink a shot.”He looked pleased with himself. “They can even bring their own bags of single socks – it will be like speed dating for knee-hi’s.”
“But it would be a terrible party,” I said. “Everyone would leave completely sober.” Alas, his enthusiasm would not be dampened bya mere shot of reality.
“We could create an art installation!” he continued. “We’ll string a clothesline along the length of the street and all of the neighbors can hang their single socks. It will be a testimony to the isolation of suburbia, a commentary on consumerism and society, a statement underscoring our commitment to reducing our carbon footprint!”