Do you have things in your life? Those little things that just become significant for some reason – a line in the sand, a battlefield of sorts? I’m having one of those in my household right now, a thing.
It’s stupid. It’s socks.
My husband’s socks, to clarify. They have become a banner waving under the breeze from the ceiling fan, representing a point in which the last straw has been added to the camel’s hump.
While never the neatest, tidiest person in the world, he’s managed not to be too obnoxious about it for the most part. My laundry policy – and I am Chief Laundress at chez moi – is that if clothing is either inside of or even along the perimeter adjacent to the 2 laundry receptacles, I will wash it, fold it, and put it away. But for some reason about a month ago, Will decided it was cute to leave his socks on the living room floor.
Ignoring my requests to pick them up following by a heaping amount of the stink eye, the socks began to work their way under the couch and padded ottoman. They’ve been accumulating there ever since. I will not pick them up. If they work their way out, I simply put them back.
Recently his mother and grandmother came over to watch the kids so we could go to Stella’s open house. When we returned, I saw a pair of socks on my end table. I asked what happened. Will’s grandmother said “Oh, they were sticking out from under the couch.” I picked them up, dropped them on the floor, and kicked them back under the couch.
Surely one day he’ll run out of socks.