#adultingishard lesson no.043 – The Sock Pile Of Death.

FEDUPThe never ending pile of socks. The ones that mock you from across the room, the ones that have no pair in sight, but deep down you know it’s match is in there… Waiting. Hiding. Lurking amongst the array of sizes, colors, and brands… Evil foot cover. I loathe you.

But, being someone who is attempting to Adult, shit has gotta be done. No matter how bad I want to pawn it off on little booger man with promises of ice cream. I mean… That wouldn’t be too bad, right? Socks matched, put away, and the kid’s happy eating ice cream. Win-win situation, people. But, alas, I’ll do it myself and wake up feeling like a better Mommy/Housewife for it. Right? No? I didn’t fricking thing so.




…belong in here.

Notice how the top picture has a sock in it that says Rebel? Yes, that one is taunting me. Mmhmm, you’re a rebel, I see that. No fucking sock to match you with unless it’s hidden between a sheet, or stuck between a couch cushion, or even perhaps turned into lint from the Washing Machine Monster – which is a story for another time.

I remember when I was younger, Diva would hand me a basket and tell me it was my chore for the day, and me being the little asshole I was, I’d just grab whatever sock was somewhat the same size and call it a day. I was 12, who the hell cares about looking good at 12? You were lucky if my hair was brushed, and didn’t have sap in it from the trees, or sand falling out of my clothes from the sand dunes behind my house. Socks were not on my top priority list. Hide-and-seek was, and this was cutting into my play-time, and I was JUST NOT HAVING THAT SHIT. Get outta here, socks. I’ve got awesome child-hood things to do. Memories to make, and crap.

So, of course I grew up throwing socks into a pile, and therefore having to do this stupid, stupid chore myself. Because JHubbs is for, (and I quote) “I do manly stuff, like take the garbage out, kill spiders, and scratch my nuts inappropriately. I don’t “match socks” or “do dishes”. That would be too helpful.”

Okay, so maybe he didn’t exactly say that, but it could happen.

Anyways – the moral of the story is, do not wait until the last minute to match your socks because then you’ll bitch at your husband for taking out the garbage and scratching his balls.

Or, something along those lines.


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