It has come to my attention that I am spending way too much of my time with your clothing items. One type, in particular. The lowly, lonely, sock. Fifty-six child-size socks per week, to be exact.
Whether it's gathering up socks from far-flung dusty places, unwadding, unrolling and insiding-outing, or (my favorite) taking crusty ones outside to shake out, I am up to my ears. These socks have no mates. These socks are a socky mess. I daydream of throwing them all away and getting one color and size for you all. I hardly think you would care. I find them under the couch, I find them on the stairs. I find them in my car, for heaven's sake, with a cloud of smelly foot rising up from them. Discarded, deserted, dispatched with haste - sock, you are anathema to me.
I know I have convinced you that scraped and banged-up legs just mean you are having fun. I do not feel the same about socks. Dirty smelly inside-out balled-up socks in every room do not mean you, or I, are having fun.
I can't care, says my inner Phoenix. I just can't care about socks anymore. When your feet get cold in the coming chill, just know that all of your socks have gone to that place in the ether where lost items go.