Sock

SANITY ON BACKORDER

From Hive Peak Boulevard

By Danu Marche

Humor Columnist

Published: December 11, 2024

Synapse & Spectacle

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This week, my laundry basket filed for missing-person status.

I’d like to blame the washing machine, but frankly, I think we’re looking at an organized underground network. Every time I run a load of laundry, one sock disappears, never to be seen again. No ransom note. No fibers at the crime scene. Just one half of a perfectly normal pair, left blinking in the harsh light of day, trying to pretend everything’s fine.

I’ve started to suspect my house has a Sock Witness Protection Program. One moment you’re a cheerful argyle, living your best life next to the dryer sheets. The next, you’re spirited away to some safe house in a drawer halfway across the country, given a new identity as “Terry, the slightly damp washcloth.”

It’s never the old, threadbare socks either. No. Those hang around forever, like that one dinner guest who ignores every hint that the evening is over. No, it’s always the good socks — the ones that match your outfit, don’t have holes, and cost more than you’d like to admit for “just socks.” These are the ones that get “relocated” for their own safety. Allegedly.

Of course, the government denies everything. I’ve called three separate agencies to file missing sock reports, and each one transferred me to a recorded message that politely suggested I “stop calling here.” Classic cover-up behavior.

Meanwhile, the lone survivors sit in my drawer, wide-eyed, whispering to each other about the last time they saw their partner. One swears it heard muffled laughter from inside the lint trap. Another claims its match now goes by “Loafer” and runs an underground poker ring in Cincinnati.

The paranoia is spreading. I’m checking my shoes twice before putting them on. I’ve started counting socks before and after laundry cycles like a neurotic shepherd. And I swear the squirrels outside my house are involved — this morning one was balanced on the frost covered sill, holding a plastic toy hammer like it was officiating some kind of bureaucratic trial. The moment I looked up, it nodded, as if to say, “We can neither confirm nor deny the sock’s whereabouts.” Do any of my neighbors even have kids?

Halfway through last week’s laundry, I tried fighting back. I safety-pinned pairs together. This only resulted in a more creative escape: one pair returned minus the pin, which I later found embedded in a bath towel like a warning. The message was clear — stop asking questions.

I’ve reached the point where I must consider either living entirely in mismatched socks (embracing my new identity as “that person”) or joining the program myself. Imagine it: a new life, a new name, maybe a cushy assignment in a Florida linen closet. I’d get occasional postcards from my old self — “Having a great time. Still not telling you where I am.”

And yet, every so often, a missing sock reappears. It slips back into my life like nothing happened — no explanation, no apology, just “Oh hey, what’s up? Wanna go for a jog?” As if I’m supposed to forget the months of cold ankles.

So until the truth comes out, I’ll keep running my cycles, counting my pairs, and keeping my eye on the squirrels. It’s only a matter of time before one side cracks.

“If you’ve ever been contacted by the Sock Witness Protection Program, please — burn this after reading.”

©2024 Danu Marche