I’m about to blog about something silly, so beware.
I’ve had a realization today that things don’t last forever. I wish somethings did. Included are my favorite pair of socks. There, I said it. Welcome to the memorial for my socks. I love them.
Purchased for $2.99 at The Gap in 2004, they came into my life at a critical time. I was just weeks way from delivering our second child Andre, and just one day away from saying a four-year goodbye to my brother and sister-in-law along with my two (and only at the time) nephews. The purchase made that October day was, unbeknownst to me, one of the few items of clothing I would ever have such sentimental feelings toward. Possibly the only. I love them.
They were there with me for the last four child births, for the very few runs I have done in the last 6 years, and always– without fail– the first pair of socks on my feet when the seasons have changed. Mostly, they have been a snuggle for my toes for 6 years. Six. Years. Worn just as soon as they are cleaned, they fit perfectly. So perfect, in fact, that mending them would make them too small. I love them
They aren’t the prettiest, the fanciest (though they did used to have white puffy balls on the heel of them), or the warmest socks I own. They are simply the best. Never shifting annoyingly throughout the day or twisting off at night. Faithfully, they have stayed just exactly how I put them on. Every time. I lovvve them.
I’ve been wearing them all day. My heels have been cold all day. I have wondered if I should keep them in a baby book… all day. I am ridiculous. They are so