I’m convinced that my washing machine and dryer are in cahoots and have a little scheme going to drive me clinically crazy. I’m sure I’m not alone and that there are tons of overworked moms out there wondering the exact same thing as me – where do all the odd socks go?
I’ve reached a point now where I’ve stopped trying to be perfect. In fact, it’s become so bad that now my poor husband’s top drawer is like a mini lost property bin, teaming at the brim and struggling to shut as a result of being stuffed so tightly with black, navy, faded black, almost black, once was black and new black, partnerless socks. Now I don’t even bother trying to find the partners to any of the socks unless they have matching, easy-to-find Buzz Lightyear / baby Gap / Lacoste motifs, failing which, I hope that the odd socks will one day be returned to their original partners later on in life, perhaps in some sort of sock heaven, probably in a warm patch behind the tumble dryer, or some other place in the world where all the odd socks end up in the end.
Sadly, I don’t think we will ever solve the mystery of where all the odd socks go. However, I do hope that wherever the odd socks end up, let’s hope that all those hours and hours of wasing, hanging up, drying, taking down, folding, sorting and packing away were worth it in the end. Finally my hope is that the 20 or so odd socks lined up on death row on the mantle piece in front of my TV will one day either get worn again or put out of their misery being chucked away, relentlessly or mercifully – by accident, now that would cut down a bit of laundry time!