Today I decided to tackle the huge bag of odd socks that has been sitting on the floor of my laundry room – watching me ignore it – for the past few weeks. No real reason, just a rare spurt of domestic activity reared its head (the bag was ready to burst) and I finally got stuck in. As soon as I started I realised some chucking out would need to be done
Now, anyone who’s read Spring cleaning but not really will know that I do not possess the right skill set to do this job well. I spend far too long on it, overthink the whole process and end up with more or less the same pile of stuff when done as what was there in the first place. But this time would be different, I avowed. No mercy would be shown!
The thing is, most of these socks are perfectly good socks. They’ve done their bit, kept our feet warm and toasty for months on end; survived a whirlwind tumble in a washing machine and coped with hours of being spun in circles in a huge, hot dryer. Only to end up waiting in a bag because somehow they’ve lost their partner. Or their partner has lost them. Or ‘someone’ (daughter? son? husband?) didn’t keep them together when gathering the laundry.
How fair is that? So here I sit, surrounded by little piles of socks of all sorts and shades, deciding which ones are up for the chop or not. It’s a merciless world.
There’s a Christmas sock, bought God-knows-how-long-ago, for my daughter. Can’t throw that out, she still loves those – what if we find the other one back? (not to mention the tiny reindeers that won’t stop twinkling up at me). A pink fluffy one, perfect for snuggling in on the sofa in the evenings – surely the other will show up soon? 19 – yes, 19 – single black socks. None of which match each other. No doubt part of my husband’s campaign to buy one style sock that is recognisable as his and won’t end up in our son’s room. Hah! So much for that! Better keep all of them, he probably has the other 19 somewhere upstairs…
Ah, here’s one that can go out – small, black with stripes. A bit tatty. Be gone, sock! And another, a faded, pink and white spotted little item that’s completely lost its shape. Out you go, no guilt. None. A soft, beige and pink little item, with dog ears and a felt ‘tongue’ sticking out at the toe. Hmm. Can I really be that mean?
A Bart Simpson sock! Geez, that’s an oldie! Seems kinda mean to throw it in the bin. Eight small, white ankle socks, good for wearing to the gym. If you’re so inclined.
Slowly, painstakingly, I find a few matching pairs and build a little tower with them. Gives a certain sense of satisfaction. Then I sort what’s left into: bin items/look upstairs for a match/put back into the bag (for now). It’s enough.
Job well done. Ish.
