I recently bought new socks. Not that I ever buy old socks, you understand. The thought of wearing someone else’s used socks creeps me out. (OK. I have problems.)
Buying new socks is not what one—or two, for that matter—might normally, or even under exceptional circumstances, call “an extraordinary event.” In fact, nothing even vaguely related to anything in this article is something that anyone would label “an extraordinary event.” I don’t know why I mentioned it at all. Please ignore my opening sentence. Let’s move on, shall we?
Please Don’t Ignore Buying New Socks.
Oh, wait. I just remembered why I mentioned it. We can’t move on because the socks and my purchase of them, uninteresting though they be, are the things I want to talk about. Therefore, please ignore my request to ignore my first sentence. Again, let’s move on, shall we?
I bought a set of three pairs of socks. Buying a set of three individual socks would have been ridiculous as I have the usual complement of two feet. But, never mind that. Plus, I don’t think stores sell them individually, which is totally unfair to people missing a foot.
The socks came on one of those triple-sock-pair hangers that someone likely spent a lifetime designing and then retired or checked into a looney bin (or, if he or she was more politically correct, possibly a mental health facility).
A wide band of heavy cardboard tightly bound the set of three sock-pairs together. The cardboard bore the manufacturer’s name. It also displayed marketing messages assuring me of the truly wonderful attributes of socks. This arrangement (the triple-sock-pair hanger coupled with the cardboard band, not the branding and marketing) ensured that none of the socks would ever be separated from the group without a conscious being willing it to be so and then taking action to cause his or her (or His or Her) will to be done.
Itinerant Socks
I found it comforting that the sock-maker went to such great lengths to ensure that the socks stayed together. Socks go through a lot to get to me. People and/or machines manhandle, and/or womanhandle, and/or machinehandle them in the factory, shipping processes, warehouses, and stores. This creates many opportunities for a sock to go missing.
Keeping the pairs together is great. I prefer that a sock waits until I put it into the dryer before it escapes and hides from its mate by traveling to a parallel universe. I’m confident that socks journey to parallel universes often. The unmatched socks I store in my sock drawer provide evidence of that (I keep them in case the itinerant sock returns to its mate. Hey, it could happen.)
I would go even farther and say that it would be nice if I got to wear a pair of socks at least once before they parted company and filed for divorce, with neither of them getting custody of my feet. That way, if they feel the need to separate irrevocably, as they usually eventually do, I at least get a little use out of them first.
The Interesting Part
Here’s the interesting part. (I know you hoped that I might include an interesting part or two.) The store had a “buy two, get the third one free” sale on socks. When buying packs, the “two” and “third” referred to sets, not individual socks or sock pairs. I bought three sets of three pairs to take advantage of the sale.
Sorry. That’s not the interesting bit, but I had to mention it because I needed to impart that information to set up the interesting part.
The Special Pair
In each of the three sets, one pair of socks was assembled differently than the other two pairs. In the special pair, one, and only one, of the socks had a piece of tissue paper inside it. This tissue paper served no purpose that I could discern other than to make a crinkly sound when I bent the socks in any way.
Maybe this was an anti-theft device. Maybe the idea was that a store clerk would hear the crinkly sound if someone tried to stuff the socks into his or her pocket without paying for them. If so, I think it would have been far more effective if the manufacturer had gone with, say, a loud, wailing siren rather than a gentle crinkling sound that isn’t audible from across an aisle, let alone the other side of the shop. But that’s just my opinion.
The other thing that was unique about this one pair out of three was that the two socks in that pair were sewn together. In addition to binding the two socks together, this stitching attached a cardboard label bearing the company’s name and marketing messages. Those names and messages added no information whatsoever to what the set-encircling cardboard provided.
What? You thought that still wasn’t an interesting part? Wait. It’s coming.
Conversation Thread
In each of the three sets of three pairs of socks, the thread binding the unique pair together was color-matched to the socks. I’m fairly certain this wasn’t just a coincidence. I intentionally chose sets that contained different colors and patterns of socks. The color of the binding-thread was different in each set, but came close to matching the socks it stitched together.
I found this strange. Just ripping the label off didn’t take the binding-thread with it. There was no way that I could see to break the thread without taking a good chunk of the sock with it. I had to cut it. The fact that the thread and socks were color-matched made it difficult to see where the thread ended and the sock began.
The sewing created a fairly tight loop. It required a surgeon’s hands and eyes to cut the thread and free the socks without damaging them. I considered asking a surgeon to do it, but my provincial health insurance plan doesn’t cover that sort of operation. (Bastards!) Therefore, it would have been cost-prohibitive.
In the end, I cut the threads myself. All three operations were successful, without any harm to the patients. Nevertheless, I’m not ashamed to say that there were some tense moments.
The Point
Here’s the point: Cutting was something I had to do. I couldn’t simply leave the thread intact unless I intended to wear the socks only while standing or sitting with my feet tightly together. So, if I must remove and discard the thread, why go to the trouble of color-matching it with the sock and, thereby, making it difficult to see when I try to cut it? That seems ridiculous to me. But that’s just my opinion.
OK, so I didn’t provide any interesting parts. Sorry about that. If I warned you that this was entirely boring most of you* would have stopped reading long ago. That would hurt my feelings if I ever found out.
* Assuming anyone whatsoever finds and reads this.
