Socks by any other name would smell as sweet?

Socks by any other name would smell as sweet.

Wednesday morning was a sobering one for me. I was hurrying around getting ready for work, and was paying the price for procrastinating putting my cloths away from last weekend’s laundry. It usually works fine; which is why I wait. Actually it only works fine until Hugo and Henry our two Jack Russell Terriers break into the utility room and try to mark all of the clean cloths.  But just like they refuse to learn house breaking, I refuse to learn that procrastination has a down side.

No, I didn’t put on a “marked” shirt and wear it all day. No, my supply of matching socks had ran out in the closet, so off I go to the laundry room. I find a good pair that match and won’t embarrass me when I sit down. That is when everything went to heck in a laundry basket. I went ahead getting ready for work. I put two pieces of bread in the toaster and headed off to the bedroom in my bare to put on my socks and shoes. This would never have happened if winter had not broken. No deep winter floors would have forced me to sit down right there in the laundry room and put my socks on. But the floor wasn’t too cold so I figured that sitting down once would shave precious seconds off of prep time and allow me a more leisurely drive into the office.

I go into the bedroom pick up my shoes sit down on the edge of the bed and I can’t find my socks any place. I stand up look where I was sitting. I walk back toward the kitchen; no socks. I walk into laundry room; no socks. I walk back toward the bedroom; look on the chest of drawers; no socks. By this time, frustration is starting to mount. This is not a new phenomenon. I have suffered these bouts of short attention span for many years.

I have learned many coping mechanisms. The problem is two fold. First, and most maddening of Bev is that I like to create piles. Paper in my hand? Put it in a pile. Change in my pocket? Put it another pile. Bring the mail in? Put it in another pile. Piles all over the house like cow plop bingo at the county fair. It is a horrible habit that has driven Bev to madness many times throughout our marriage. Since it is a habit, I often place things in these piles without thinking or remembering their placement. This was the second problem.

I use the past tense because I have found a surefire method allowing me to remember on which pile I set stuff. I have found three places to make piles. They are out of the way and the number is limited enough so as not to cause too much distress for Bev. These three pile zones allows me the freedom to sit whatever is in my hand down and when I need it again and can’t find it handy, I only have three places to look and viola; problem solved; item found. I am back on my way. I have been doing this so long that my default setting is: if I can’t find something I go look on the corner of the role top desk, the kitchen island, or the entry way table. Even if I don’t remember walking by any of those places the past three days, I go to those three places.

So even though I know I did not pass any of the piles going from the laundry room, to the bedroom, I look on the corner of the desk, no socks. I look on the kitchen island, no socks, I look on the entry way table no socks. Now, I am starting to become anxious. I have long ago used up the precious “saved” seconds. My toast popped minutes ago and will now be so cold that the butter won’t melt on it, and I still haven’t found my socks that I had firmly in my grasp 5 minutes earlier. Five minutes lost puts me on the verge of having to commit one or two moving violations; passing on a double yellow line on blind man’s curve, going through intersections on the pink, going 35 in the 30 mph zone of McCordsville. However, the children of Mt. Comfort Elementary will be safe as I go 25 mph through their zone.

But where the heck are those socks? Finally, I decide to just forget it and get another pair of socks. Into the closet I go and pull out this pair from the very bottom of the drawer that I hate. They are so inflexible that it feels like I am putting on the tubes from a role of paper towels. I hate these socks. But I try not to bemoan my misfortune. After all, it is my own procrastination that started this cascade of events.

Socks and shoes on; I stomp off towards the kitchen, grab the toast cubes and try to put some butter on them. I grab my lunch bucket and looking at the clock, I begin to wish that this was happening 5 days later. Then I could blame it of daylight savings time. I grab my coat and throw it on. Something is not right.  Something feels funny. Thinking what else could go wrong; a mouse on the shoulder, a sudden shoulder tumor; I don’t know. I’m late. So, I whip the coat off. As I do, the socks fall from my shoulder onto the floor.

Don’t worry. The embarrassment of that moment will subside and I will be able soon be able to embrace the short term storage of socks on the shoulder. One must be adaptable in these trying times.

Take care,

Roger.