A few years ago, my sister wisely observed that when people grow up they tend to fill some gaps of their real or perceived unmet childhood desires and expectations. It’s probably why middle-aged men buy sports cars. Mid-life crisis? Maybe. But maybe it’s not that they want to recapture their youth, as much as it’s finally enjoying something they desired in their youth.
Whatever the reason, I agree with her observation. But things people might have missed out on when they were younger don’t need to be extravagant.
This morning I chose a pair of warm socks to wear around the house to take the chill off. Fifty degrees? Cloudy and rainy? Arizona forgot it’s a desert apparently. I pulled my socks on, stepped on the tile floor, and felt a cold spot on my heel. Must be a hole, I thought. Yes, there were two little holes worn through the bottom of my sock. When I’m done wearing them today, they’re destined for the trash instead of the laundry. I’m not upset about their demise. They had a long life.
Unlike the socks I wore for several lean years growing up. Some weren’t even good for one wearing. And none were good after one washing. White became a color that doesn’t exist in nature, usually only occurring to one out of the pair. Socks of color also went through magical transformations. Matching became a kind of art – choosing the two closest shades to make a pair. Elastic was non-existent. I got a lot of exercise, reaching down to unscrunch the lumps under my feet where they gravitated to their lowest points. I very rarely got holes on the bottoms, though. A hole in the big toe was usually the first breach of the fabric. A hole in the toe requires another skill. Before you put on your shoes, you pull the front of the sock up past your toes and tuck that part under. Then you quickly slip your foot into your shoe being careful not to let the front of the sock slip back. If you’ve ever worn a sock with a hole in the toe, you know that part is crucial to preventing it from strangling your toe and cutting off your circulation.
Sheets had a few similarities to my socks back then. For example, fitted was a misnomer. After one magical mystery tour through the washer, not only did the color change, but due to shrinkage you could only tuck one or two of the pockets around the mattress. By your head? But there was a pillow (of sorts), you could lay your head on, so by your feet? Decisions, decisions.
The first Christmas after I got married, my sister bought me two pairs of socks. She probably gave me other gifts. She’s always overly generous, but I only remember the socks. They were knee socks. One pair was burgundy and one pair was navy blue. They both had a gold design on them. It was years past the droopy, holey sock days. But until that Christmas I didn’t realize how luxurious socks could be. And until a few years into my marriage, I didn’t know sheets came in different thread counts. The higher the thread count, the softer the sheets. Who knew? Well, probably most people.
I’m glad I went through those years as a kid. I’m guessing most people I know don’t think of nice socks, sheets, and other small things as luxuries. But I do, and I’m looking forward to tossing the socks I’m wearing now and picking out a nice luxurious pair to replace them. And maybe I should look at sheets while I’m shopping.