The Sock Gap Part II
Although I'm not religious and definitely not superstitious, I must confess that I am a firm believer in sock elves. I am convinced that both my my old and my new apartment are infested by elves -- that like to steal, construct nests out of, and munch upon -- my socks. I don't have proof of this per se, but I cannot come up with any other reasonable explanation as to where the hell my socks keep going.
Inevietably, when I'm getting ready to run out the door, already late for some meeting or appointment, I cannot find a pair of socks that match. I can find one of the grey and red strippy socks, and one of the pink socks with white cats all over them that my mother sent me for Christmas last year, but it is nigh impossible to find two socks that go together.
So sometimes, I wear socks that don't match. Usually, I at least try to find two of remotely the same color, or at least two that do not clash, but sometimes it is difficult to maintain even an ounce of proper sock decorum.
But that's okay, because no one ever sees your socks, right?
Wrong, at least in Sweden.
I understand why one must take off one's shoes upon entering someone's home, in order to avoid spreading gravel, snow, and salt all over their lovely, and freshly polished wooden floors, but I find it a tad over-the-top when gyms, dentists, and doctor's offices request the same thing.
Yesterday, my physical therapist was witness to the pink polka dots on one foot and solid black on the other. Really, it was quite embarassing, despite the fact that she assured me, "Really, I'm not even looking at your socks. I'm concentrating on your knee. Really."
It's not that I'm color blind, I promise. I blame it on those damn sock elves.