Sock it to me?

I wish I would remember to buy socks.

But then, I wish I would remember to buy a lot of things.

I have a problem with stores. Once inside, I rarely can remember why I came there in the first place. It’s a lapse of memory that often leaves my needs sadly unmet.

Blame it on my nature. A long as I am warm, fed, and reasonably amused I become a pudgy ball of contentment, unaware and unwilling to be aware of life’s little lackings that goad normal people into responsible and timely action.

When I go to a store I am usually warm, fed and reasonably amused. Therein lies my problem.

I fear I really am more suited to be a shopper in the old Soviet Union. Under the old Red Empire folks had it easy when they went to the store...if there was something for sale, they’d buy it. In this country I have to stand there and try to remember what out of all the thousands and thousands of gee-gaws and thingamabobs on display it was that I came there to take home. After I eliminate all the stuff I already have, there generally isn’t much that I need, want, or can afford. So I wander out to the parking lot with a pack of gum, four light bulbs, and a nagging suspicion that I’ve forgotten something.

Invariably I have.

Consequently, I am regularly confronted with pancake flat toothpaste tubes, staple-less staplers, and the recollection that a paper towel is a poor substitute for the coffee filters I passed by enroute to frozen foods. I’ve become aware enough of my failing that I keep about a half dozen worn to the nub Speed Sticks stashed under the sink for the inevitable day when I remember that I forgot to buy a fresh one, a lapse of memory that could put my social acceptability in serious jeopardy.

But socks are the worst.

My sock drawer has to be the holiest place this side of heaven. Every morning I find myself on a quest for the most nearly intact socks available and every morning I mutter to myself, “I’ve got to get some new socks.”

But a funny thing happens. I tug and adjust and get the sock on my foot in such a way that the spots that are no longer there are barely noticeable, slip on my shoe and walk away. By the time I’ve had my coffee I’ve forgotten that I’m wearing holey socks. In fact, I probably won’t give a thought to my socks until the next morning, when the same scenario plays itself out all over again.

I suppose I could just throw out every sock with a hole, but the same instinctive drive for personal security that makes me a collector of dibs and dabs of deodorant keeps me from doing so. I need to know that no matter what happens, I will have some sort of sock to fall back on. But it is that very sense of security that numbs my memory as I walk past the signs screaming “Sale! Eight pairs for eight bucks.” If my feet are in socks, socks are out of my mind.

But in more reflective moments, I become seriously concerned. This could become a life threatening affliction. In the quiet of my meditations my mother’s admonitions come back to me. It was drilled into me, as it was into us all, that the quality of care delivered in a hospital emergency room is in direct proportion to the cleanliness and condition of a person’s undergarments, with special attention being paid to shorts and socks. If Mother was correct, and mothers are always correct, if I should be hit by a truck I am in real danger of being the first person to die of ratty hosiery.

A sobering thought.

I really have to buy myself some socks.