My daughter loves socks. She can waltz through the candy asile without a peep, but if you meander past some socks in her size and don’t offer to get them for her, you may have a problem. Even though she already has lots of them, she never minds getting more. If I don’t pay enough attention on an average afternoon, she may change her socks two or even three times.
It must be hereditary.
|These are not my feet.|
I was finding and wearing interesting socks in high school even before they decided to make us wear uniforms every day, which was a decision made the summer before my senior year. My friends and I would buy crazy, bright colored socks. Stripey toe socks, fluffy polka dot socks, fancy zigzag socks, anything that was different from your average white tube sock. I even had one friend who would wear fishnet stockings and get disapproving looks from teachers as she pointed out that there was nothing in the rules against it.
When we got uniforms, our socks became all we had that might differentiate us. Decked out in matching khakis and dark polo shirts, we looked like Despair. I like to think that the silly socks that my friends and I wore brought a smile to the faces of our classmates and fellow sufferers. On days when I wore silly socks, I would get several comments: “those are hilarious!” “awesome!” and “I love your socks, how unique!” It made me feel good to be able to express myself under the drudgery that the school uniform imposed on me.
My three year old daughter has a million ways to express herself. Her love for socks is just one way, and it amuses me to think she’ll be carrying on the tradition.
I’m ready to pass down the socks I enjoyed in high school so that she can enjoy them, too. In my opinion, she should wait to grow into them a bit, but it doesn’t really matter to her that her feet aren’t big enough at the moment for the fuzzy pink pair that she keeps stealing from my closet.