45 Odd Socks

There are some questions in life that will never be answered.

One is: How can one small slice of chocolate cake make your favourite jeans shrink overnight?

Another is: Why would a man ever think a ‘comb-over’ is a good look?

But the number one question that seems to pose a problem to households all over the world, since human beings first donned clothing, is: Where do socks go after they enter the washing machine?

It is the bane of my existence as the resident washer woman in this particular household. And I know I’m not alone.

Even for a family of four (occasionally five) there is enough clothing to have me visiting the laundry room every day of every week of every month of every year (sadly there’s no room for a holiday for Good Friday or Christmas Day in this routine). Take one 7 y.o. boy, add a 5 y.o. girl, a truck-driving husband, and occasional visits from a teenager, and there is enough dirty stuff to keep our house in a perpetual cycle of wash-rinse-repeat. And considering I’m the one who goes through the least changes of clothes on any given day, I’m also the one who gets to do the honours (or horrors as the case may be) with the washing. How ironic. (Or should I say ironic?)

Take today’s effort - after an hour and a half of solid sorting and folding, guess what I was left with? Come on say it with me… 45 odd socks.

How does that even happen?

I mean, you buy them in pairs, surely they were both worn at once, and put into the wash at the same time … so how on earth, I ask you, does one end up with 45 odd socks?

And what does one do with them?

Oh sure, I could pair them up creatively and tell everyone we’re rebelling against conformity for feet. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time my Beloved has worn mismatched socks under his work boots (in his defense, black and blue do look pretty much the same at night). I could be crafty and donate them to my children’s school, there’s nearly enough for each kid in each class to make a sock puppet or two.

Or I could do what I always do, throw them into the lost socks basket and hope that one day their partner will show up from wherever it is they went in the wash.

Some of the socks have been waiting for a mate for about 2 years now. In fact, there are some in there without a pair that don’t even have feet to fit anymore (kids do have a habit of growing, don’t they?) And I am positive that some socks shouldn’t even be here- I’m the sole sock buyer for the family and I sure as hell don’t recognise them!

So where do they come from? And where do they go?

There have been many theories. Not all of them scientific. But in the interests of entertainment (for me, even if no one else) I’ll recount a few here.

1. The ol' Black Hole. If indeed there are wormholes sucking up these socks- why would worms want them? They don’t have any feet!

2. Alien abduction. Surely even little green men would like to have two matching little green socks (unless of course they also go for the 'comb-over', then it’s not totally outside the realm of possibility).

3. A sock monster. Seriously, even if I would fall for the first two, there’s just no way I could go for that one. But some people do. Some people are desperate for a sock solution.

Then there are the less-creatively minded, those who have thought long and hard about the enigma that is odd socks; and they have put forward the theory that small items like socks are the main offenders for crawling into crevices in the washing machine. Some have even presented the evidence of stray socks wrapped around the agitator. Well, pooh. Where’s the fun in that?

Whoever these sox offenders are, one thing’s for sure, I will remain forever optimistic and keep dropping strays into the aforementioned laundry basket.

And I live in hope that these 45 odd socks, just like the rest of us, will one day find their solemate.

Jx
©2009

Air Apparent

I knew I should’ve changed my socks.

But at 6.45am on a public holiday, one can be forgiven for not thinking straight. Or at least for not planning any further ahead than a cuppa coffee for the trip to the airport, at any rate.

My boss was a little early in collecting me, which was quite fine as I was ready and waiting, just filling in time by giving my kids a couple more cuddles to stock us all up for the 3 days of absences on the way.

My bag was packed, and off we went to Williamtown.

At least the trip to the airstrip went smoothly.

We check in, collect our boarding passes and head for the gate (sadly, my borrowed carry-on could not be carried on; a tad over a kilo overweight and a smidge too wide).

Now, you gotta love the newly-upgraded secure status of these places; it’s reassuring for travellers that there’s but a slim chance of anything untoward happening whilst you’re en route to your destination. But I really am starting to suspect that I have a sign on my forehead (visible only to airport staff) that says “Pick me for the full security routine”.

I had my first inkling of it when I went to the USA for a conference on Juvenile Arthritis in 2007 with my small son in tow. Without fail, every time we arrived at a checkpoint, I was the lucky lucky traveller they ‘randomly selected’ to check their luggage, their handbag, even their body! I actually asked the rather large african-american lady that was scraping her fingernails along the soles of my bare feet at LAX, “What is it, exactly, that you think I am hiding there?” Obviously, they’re not big on teaching small-talk at airport security school.

Back to this trip; we approach the gate and duly start to empty our pockets and place our handbags on the conveyor belt to go through screening:

Ding ding ding ding!

“Step back please, and remove your belt Ma’am”

“Sure, but I gotta tell you, if I do that, my pants will fall down!” (Yes, in a bid to be as comfy as possible for travel I had chosen my ‘fat pants’. My bad.)

So I step through the archway again:

Ding ding ding ding!

“Step back please ma’am, and remove your boots.”

“Oh good grief, at this stage I will be standing in my smalls- unless of course the underwire sets the damn thing off again!”

To which the security guy says, “My day’s getting better all the time!” (Seems Aussie security staff have a sense of humour, at least.)

Thankfully no more bells and whistles, but there I was collecting my gear, hopping on one foot holding my pants up with one hand, while trying to restore my clothing and at least some shred of dignity. And there you have it, my bright purple knee highs had a hole!

Well at least I provided some early morning entertainment for travellers of not only Jetstar, but Virgin Blue too.

Now, settled into my window seat awaiting take off, I tune into the hostie’s demonstration of what to do “in the unlikely event of an emergency” and follow along on the safety card from the pocket in front; I can’t help wondering why in the picture, the air stewards watching passengers assuming the ‘brace’ position, are smiling! They obviously know something we don’t. And I also reflect on the silly fact that if a lady like me tried bracing by placing one's generous chest on one's legs as illustrated, there’s no way I’m ever going to be in the correct “head down” position required in such drastic circumstances (thanks for the mammaries)! In my opinion, that’s right up there with printing those photo offers on the sick bags. (Hopefully you get to use it for the former before the latter.)

I amuse myself in this manner for a little while until the scenery and a touch of turbulence grabbed my attention. As I was staring out the window trying to identify the landscape below, and pondering the fact that clouds are bumpy…the passenger in front of me lets rip with a gaseous cloud of their own. It really made me think I’d be reaching for the oxygen mask after all, or at the very least the surgical face mask I packed in preparation for our trip to ‘Swine Flu Capital’.

Thankfully, the rest of the journey passed in relative peace. And all went well at Tullamarine, until it was time to head home again.

Despite the fact that any number of other passengers were all but bearing their entire life’s belongings as they boarded the plane for the return journey, the girl we got on the check-in desk was playing by the rules and weighed and questioned everything our little group was carrying, to the point where when we finally were checked in, we headed to Gate 6 via the bar.

And after sitting at the terminal for half an hour longer (waiting for errant passengers), the plane finally started taxiing towards the runway taking us to our loved ones back home.

The night flight was fairly uneventful (except for a rather nervous passenger sitting next to me), but it was only fitting that when we arrived at Newcastle airport, and watched and waited as the baggage carousel did its thing, we realised that we had fallen prey to yet another cliché of air travel- and at least one of our bags got a longer holiday than we did! (Of course it had been checked through in my name- the curse of the random passenger strikes again!)

As I write this, I’m still waiting to hear of its final destination.

But on the up side, I am happy to report that I was prepared for the sock-hopping-through-security this time; no toes peeping through the hose!

Jx
©2009