Sock Overload
The only way I can return my clean socks to their drawer every washday is to press them all in, then snatch my fingers back so they don’t get squished when I hip check it closed. Overstuffed doesn’t describe it. You know how caulking comes out of the tube and after you’ve applied it to the window frame it just swells and grows and bulges out like a live thing that is about to fill the entire room? That’s my sock drawer.
Today I finally reached my limit, pulled everything out and attempted to pile it all on the dresser top which needed to be cloned to hold it all. Pink socks with black polka dots. A pair with black, white and pink stripes. Those are a set purchased for those days when whimsy is running rampant. Four black pair of what appear to be stretchy like bicycle shorts. I don’t even recall purchasing those. And whimsy has been fulfilled in other ways, like a tee covered in butterflies in colours that butterflies never come in. . . . contd.
