A funky, tweedy superwash merino sock yarn in rich, earthy fall tones was sitting in a basket just past the checkout desk. I could only see one skein, not enough for a pair. I felt compelled to dig a little deeper, just to see, and found not one, but two more balls near the bottom. Then I noticed the sign attached to the basket. My German being not exactly stellar, I finally managed to work out with the ever patient sales clerk that this meant that the yarn was half off. It felt like destiny.
The first sock was lovingly cast on almost as soon as I got home. Working in a 2x2 rib down to the heel flap, I reveled in the warm colors and cozy texture. Working the heel flap, I speculated about how they would look with this sweater or that. All the way through the toes, my sock and I had a great relationship; this was one in a million.
Then I cast on the second sock, slowly, and thought about some socks I wanted to make my son for Christmas. I put my sock away and made those. Then there was the afghan I wanted to make for my daughter, and socks for my husband, and a headband, and Sheldon the Turtle (who will have a whole post of his own), and chick for Easter, and......well, you get the picture.
SO. Here I am with the second sock. The honeymoon is over, the novelty worn off, the bloom off the rose and a million other cliches that all mean I am so sick of the *&$@%ing socks I can't stand it! Why can't people just wear two different socks all the time? Why do we make them in matching pairs? While my daughter has no problem pulling this off in the seventh grade, I still can't seem to make it fly in the office............
