Sock It to Me, Baby!

Yesterday, a friend told me that her mom had gotten into socks some time in her 50s, too.  As though my new "thing" for footwear was  simply a generational signpost, like menopause or acne cream.

I'll be the first to admit that I do have a bit of a problem down there.  It's true that I just ordered another four pairs that'll arrive on Friday.  Although I'd like to point out that I bought most of them to give away to others.

Addiction can be so lonely.  It's nice to take a friend or two down with you.

If you've ever spent any amount of time around me, you know that "Fashion" is not my middle name.  The shirt I'm wearing right now?  I got it five years ago and I still consider it new.  Heck, just last week, not once but twice, my classy, ailing mom called me out for a fashion faux pas.  The first time happened when she woke from a nap.   Blinking her eyes a few times, she looked me over and asked if I'd like to borrow one of her shirts before we went to dinner.  Which we ate in her apartment's living room!  And then, a few days later, again shaking off sleep, she looked at my hair and asked aloud what had happened.

Blame my age, if you must.  But don't you dare try to take my silly socks away from me.  For this fashion flop, these socks are the newest, the funniest, the most surprising part of my wardrobe these days.  And, each dark morning, when I reach in to grab a pair--blind to which one I'll get--I feel like a kid on Christmas morning, shaking the cottony handful, wondering what horrible, sassy message I'll discover inside.

So, forgive me if I relish this new phase I'm going through.  Cut this girl some slack, because I can't begin to tell you how much I enjoy the fact that I can barely cram another balled-up pair of awesomeness into my sock drawer.