The Socks

A couple of months ago I bought six pairs of socks with purple toes.  Shortly after I joined the Y (when I found out we had to take off our shoes for Pilates), I invested in six more pairs of pristine white socks.  That's TWELVE pairs, TWELVE of each style of sock.

So why the blazes can I never find even TWO that match?    I end up with my husband's socks, or too-short ones, or one with purple toes and one without.  Worse yet, one with holes. Trash them.  Geez.

The truth of it is, I am my own worst enemy.  I blame the washer, the dryer, the laundry basket.  I blame static cling when I find one stuck to my silky pj's.   Let us be honest here.  It's because I didn't put them away.  I took them out of the dryer, they landed on a pile of whatever, got covered by sweats and sweaters. 

I worked on that pile today.  I found seven matching pairs of socks, a pair of pajamas, a few unmentionables, a blouse with the tags still on it....you get the picture.  I also found three dimes, a few freshly laundered tissues and a dog biscuit.  I returned the biscuit to its rightful owner.  He re-buried it.

For now, the socks match, the blouse is hung, the tissues tossed.  In another week I will once again be cursing the sock thief.

One of the items on my private bucket list is to overcome my pack-rat tendencies and to clean that damnable basement.  It seems no matter how much I throw out, no matter how good my intentions, there is still the proverbial "sock pile" to deal with.

The trouble is, it is not just socks, or pajamas, or dog biscuits.  It is the accumulation of thoughts, habits, possessions and people from sixty years of living.  Some of it has to GO.  The hard part is deciding what stays and what goes.   There are people and things that mean a lot to me.  There are memories attached, or the "I might need it someday" syndrome.  Some of it--things as well as people--is just plain junk.  Sooner or later, they will have to be tossed.

Some lessons are harder to learn than others.