Oh, the years we’ve wasted donning white socks and black, sometimes brown if the ensemble screams for it, but never bright orange, or psychedelic candy stripes like the ones I’m wearing today.
“How gauche,” I hear. “How unprofessional,” you say.
Well yes, maybe if you’re a banker or the chief of police, but wouldn’t you trust the mayor just a wee bit more if he went around wearing knee-high rubber ducky socks on purple, or pink stars on fluorescent orange? I know I would.
Just think of the mindless hours we spent separating those “boring” socks – darks in this pile, whites over there – when bright reds covered with pizza slices would’ve given us at least a hiccup, something to ponder, a respite from the endless tedium.
“You can’t wash those with your white shirts. They’ll turn everything into a faded bad acid trip.”
Yes, but we’d be awash in exotic colors the likes of which the world has never seen. Let’s do away with the white oxford. Let the business blue fade from memory. Give me something boldly muted that makes people wonder, “What the heck was he thinking?”
Navy blue socks with palm trees; gray socks bearing pineapples; tropical fish swimming in black; blue hibiscus on white; polka dots for the left foot, stripes for the right. These are not the socks of children anymore. I say they are the socks of men.
“He must be suffering from heat stroke. Somebody call an ambulance.”
No, I’ve just seen the light, thanks to my loving wife who bought me a pair of bright red socks for Christmas – bright red socks that remind me of a time when life was simpler, more adventurous, a playground expedition followed by snow cones in the park. But then life crept up one day and declared, “Become a man. Throw away your childish things. Cleave unto all things adult like mortgages and insurance payments. Embrace navy blue, a good all-around color that’s befitting for every occasion. And by all means shun the Star Wars Chewbacca socks like the plague, for they will be your undoing.”
Ah, too late. For my sock collection will remain undone until every last tiresome pair goes extinct through natural selection, leaving behind a drawer full of adventurous foot attire that only the brave would dare to don.
“It might be too late, but does anybody know CPR?”
No need. My heart is so much lighter, now that my feet are so much brighter. I’d recommend it to one and all (buy yourself a cheap pair of silly socks to improve the quality of your life) but most people would never fall for the idea that happiness can be bought for mere pennies on the foot.
There will come a day when I will breathe my last breath, cry my last tear, sing my last song. Is it so appalling to want to live those final days with a smile on my face and Super Mario socks on my feet?
I think not.