I read somewhere that the average American has over 300,000 items in his or her house and that that house is so cluttered that he or she spends, on average, 55 minutes a day looking for his or her things.
Probably, I have 300,000 things in my house if I count two boxes of toothpicks and a lot of nails of assorted sizes in a large coffee can. But the apotheosis of my clutter is my sock drawer. Crammed into this fairly small space are approximately 30 pairs of socks, mostly wildly colored horrors purchased online from a company called “Joys of Sox.” Also in the drawer are about 34 socks with no mate, 11 single black socks, none of which seem to match, a pair of garters I have had since college days, and two pair of slipper socks given to me during hospital stays.
This cluttered sock collection might be alright for a normal person, but if any of you have looked at my feet lately, you will have noticed that I don’t wear socks—with the exception of a few evenings when I go to a cultural event in the city and don formal dress, once or twice a year. Otherwise, my feet to go sockless.
I choose this quirky mode of dress because I have hot feet. Not burning feet, which I would view with alarm, just hot feet. Yes, I know at my age I should have cold feet, but that is not the case. In Mexico, my feet are always hot. I do wear slippers on the coldest mornings in West Marin but, generally speaking, my hot feet love the feeling of standing on a cool floor.
So, you ask, why in the devil’s name would I have an entire drawer full of unworn socks? I asked myself the very same question and, so, today I resolved to drastically winnow the selection.
I began by upending the entire mess onto my bed, where it made a motley pile. My wife came in and expressed astonishment that something I had threatened to do for 10 years was coming to pass.
One hour later, the deed had been done. I now have 15 pairs of matching socks, neatly folded together, and no unmatched socks. My task is not yet finished. I haven’t matched my assorted black socks; however, I am on it first thing tomorrow.
For the linguists, our word “sock” comes from the Greek “sykchos,” a kind of shoe, to the Latin “soccus,” a light shoe or slipper, and hence to Middle Dutch “socke.” There you are, sock-wise.
Ed Schwartz gave up socks and San Francisco in 1989 for the wilds of West Marin. He and his wife, Bambi, live in Inverness.