Once upon a time, to cure her little brother’s latest materialistic ailment, Wendy went on an important mission. His grievance, voiced while struggling to dress for Saturday morning hockey practice, hovered around: “It’s not fair. You’re always wearing the soft and supple socks mom just bought. All I have left in my room are mismatching, part-polka-dot-part-reindeer socks, and two Nike socks that were likely struck in a drive-by.” In case you’re wondering, her little brother was as much an orator as he was a whiner. Which was an ailment in itself.
Over breakfast, following her brother’s cries, Wendy’s parents did the same. It was concluded that no one except for Wendy owned one functional pair of sock. So, feeling slightly guilty about her impressive personal sock collection – some of which she admittedly did not remember owning – Wendy restlessly raided all of the house’s drawers, closets, coin infested sofa creases, skates, ski boots, snow boots and sports bags (etc), on a tireless quest to improve her family members’ respective existences. What a good daughter she was.
This mission was quite successful. After half a day’s toiling, Wendy reunited 235 lonely socks into 105 pairs. I don’t know if that’s a lot of socks. Perhaps the US Bureau of Statistics should investigate. In any case, this number amounted to 26 pairs per person, or 3.71 LAZYs (Laundry Avoided Zen Year/52 units).
This also meant that 25 socks were still unmatched, and would probably never find partners. Of course, the same could be said about people.
Once Wendy finished her systematic matchmaking, she proceeded to quality triage, making six piles:
1. New: Soft, satiny, stretchy, supple, and unaltered by years of bodily juice absorption.
2. Sand-papery & tight: Have lost their smooth downy texture, but still exhibit elastic properties.
3. Loose: Acceptable when 1 & 2 are too dirty, but inevitably bunching up underneath the arches.
4. Desperately matched (also, beige meets white): Not really aesthetic to the fashionable and/or non-protanope, but comfortable and therefore acceptable in case of urgency.
5. Overused: Contains mild holes. Used only when category 1 through 4 have been exhausted.
6. Garbage bound: Garbage bound.
And in case you’re wondering, Wendy’s classification referred to socks and socks only.
In the end, the recently purchased Costco Wholesales socks consistently earned top ranking, while the ones acquired in a West Palm Beach flea market around 2004 were all recycled into insulation material.
Wendy separated the pile in four sub-piles, trying to fulfill her family members’ varying size requirements, while ensuring equal access to quality socks. Distribution was finalized, and everyone was happy to rediscover lost socks, like the Secret Santa socks and other such pairs.
Somehow, in the end, Wendy’s pile contained ever so slightly more Category 1 socks than everyone else’s. Wendy had concluded that she could (should?) get more Category 1 socks. “Who else will notice? They didn’t haplessly pair those socks, I did,” she thought.
Of course, the inevitable subsequently happened. The person charged with weekly laundering always boasted superior appendage coverage. So much like before the pre-sock redistribution intervention, Wendy’s brother presently owns Category 4 and 5 socks exclusively. And many socks are once again lost in the black holes that are sofa cushion creases, sports bags and ski boots, because laundry’s harvest always brings more to those who toil the hardest.
Conclusion: Communism socks.
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