Ankle Socks

Ankle socks.


You don't understand. When I run out of these socks, these socks that are NOT EVEN ankle socks, they're almost HEEL socks, they're just short enough to not peak out their weary heads from the rim of my sneakers, and yet long enough to never catch under my heal, when I run out of them I'm so angry. It means the approach of laundry day. It means it's time to start wearing ill-fitting socks until I clean all of my clothes. It means gold-toes.

ANKLE SOCKS. They're coming. I got the e-mail today, the email from the internet that says, "Your ankle socks are coming!" Such a sweet ring to it, I could kiss that digital postman, no matter how he may smell or sweat, or curse at me when I ask him if there's any mail for me.

I'm not just getting a pair. I'm getting twelve pairs. 24 perfectly shaped socks. No more of these gold-toed, worn out worthless foot mittens. No. From no on, no one will see my socks, and I will be so happy about it. I can wear them, whether my feet are clean or not. No need to distinguish between, "Oh, these are the clean-foot socks" and "Oh, I haven't bathed in two days. Gold-toed it is." Never again. My feet will be cloaked in the skin-tight, ankleless heaven-sent cotton design with arch support, all day, every day.

This is going to be AWESOME.