I hate matching socks. I really do. I wash them and pull them out of the drier and shove them in a drawer.
Once a week, I make up clothing packets, so I don’t have to search in the mornings for the various pieces. Pants, shirt, underwear and socks get rolled up and a large rubber band gets tossed over the whole packet. When I do it this way, I do make sure my socks match, since I am doing it when I have time.
On the days that I have run out of clothing packets, all bets are off. Anything I can find is fair game. I am totally mismatched. Or I am totally over matched. Grey on grey. Black on black. Not usually good. The socks, though. No way. Do I have a sock for the left foot? Yes. Good. Do I have a sock for the right foot? Yes. Good. Do either of them want to fall down into my shoe? No. Good. Are they both the same color? I don’t know. I don’t care. They are on and aren’t bothering me. No one sees them for the most part.
Those of you who do know me in person can usually tell what kind of week I am having, just by my socks. I am learning to let things go. Matching socks was one of the first things to go.
bookworm at the gym 