How is it that I spent my entire bachelorhood without ever losing socks in the laundering ritual but I have to search the house high and low to find a matching pair these days?
I certainly don’t have the answer, but my latest attempt to solve that age-old, married-with-children dilemma is to just buy new socks. I start a new job tomorrow and I don’t want my first impression to be, “Hey, look at the redneck with mismatched socks!” So I bought a batch of four pair this afternoon.
The socks actually didn’t cost us a dime because I used a gift card that the team parents gave me last year for coaching soccer. But Aunt Virginia still got her 38-cent cut from the $7.50 price tag.
Ah, the gift of taxation.