Slaying the Sock Monster

For it is written, "There shall come to pass a Day of Reckoning. And the goats shall be separated from the sheep. And the wheat shall be separated from the chaff. And the single socks shall be converted into dust rags or tossed in the trash can."

OK, so it's not exactly Biblical. But sock sorting is an inevitability of life akin to death and taxes.

For me, sock sorting is a life avoidance technique. If I am actually taking the time to match the Mount Vesuvius-sized pile of socks that have accumulated in my laundry room, then I must be procrastinating in order to avoid an equally awful task.

Young mothers take heed. If I could do it all over again, I would have invented a Sock Matching Game when my kids were little. I would have praised them for each successfully matched pair and bribed them with M&M's (like when they were potty training) so that sock sorting was something that brought happiness and chocolate.

The Pavlovian response would have lasted for years so that they would still salivate at sock piles when they were married with their own dirty-footed kids.

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Maybe we would have had an annoying, yet shockingly motivating song like the old Barney "Clean Up!" ditty. I can picture the darlings now, sorting the athletic socks from the dress socks, the kids' socks from the adult socks, all the while gaily singing "This is the way we match our socks…"

But alas, I failed terribly as a mother in the sock-sorting category of child rearing.

For you see, the ever-growing pile of unmatched socks is INVISIBLE to all eyes but mine in our household.

The inevitable plea for help, "Mom where's my green and gold Nike Elite soccer socks? It's picture day!" is about the only thing powerful enough to send them rummaging frantically through the heap.

The real women of yester-year actually DARNED socks. When there was an unraveling edge or a small hole in the toe, they would take matching yarn and sew them up. I, too, darn socks, but my version is to say "Darn! Darn! Darn!" as I toss the damaged or really dirty ones into the trash can.

One of the great mysteries in life is how on earth are there so many lone socks with no matches. Ever the optimist, I hold on to a basket full of singles in hopes their long lost mates will one day reappear.

Why do I save them? I do not know.

Perhaps it is a yin-yang-ish belief that the universe is composed of opposites magnetically attracting each other. Maybe it is the delusional concept that one day I will move the dryer out, look under the beds and empty my sons' 10,000 random gym bags thus reuniting all the loners.

It's not like I'm a Depression-era child or a hoarder. I just can't get beyond the disbelief that they could actually disappear. They have to be somewhere, don't they?

There is only one logical explanation: Yes Virginia, there is a sock monster and he is alive and well-fed in my laundry room coming out at night to gorge himself as he devours single socks by the dozens.

Alas, the Day of Reckoning has come, and so here I find myself on a cold winter day lining up hundreds of socks across the living room floor with the pathetic, yet admirable hope of reuniting every last one.

But, try as I might, there will be an inevitable pile of loners.

Will I have the courage and will-power to dispose of them? Or will I stubbornly cling to the delusional notion that if I just keep them long enough their mates will reappear? After all, the Bible does say, "what was lost shall be found."

Who knows, but I sure am doing a great job procrastinating by writing this silly sock column instead of sorting! And, anything is better than working on tax returns.