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Who Makes These Things!

22 Mar

If men had to wear stockings, they’d be undoubtedly abolished.

Waking up for work is hard enough.  Add having to pick out a fantastic outfit just in case the hot guy on the 6th floor happens to be in your elevator, and it’s just too much for a rainy Monday morning.

As luck should have it, the frock I picked out actually wasn’t half bad.  During the seventy-six second period between pushing the elevator button, balancing my phone and coffee, and the elevator’s arrival, there was a brief but glorious moment when I glanced in the mirror and thought I’d pulled off the impossible – a fashion victory in just under twenty minutes of preparation.

I should have known it was all too easy.

Not five minutes into my 9AM meeting did my boot of doom somehow grow claws, latch onto my tights (the same ones I’d prided myself on not ripping during my sunrise extreme makeover), and rip a hole just big enough to become the bane of my existence.

9:02 AM – boot defeats stocking in the battle of good versus evil.

I sat in my chair, helpless yet plotting how I could stop the rip that was growing faster than a chia pet.  (Note – when you’re only resources are pen, paper, and boredom, you’re shit out of luck in all wardrobe malfunction remedy attempts.)  Of course, nail polish would have fixed said rip from spreading immediately, but who carries clear nail polish with them all day!?

Answer – me (and you) from now on.

Sans nail polish and pride, I ran (fine, walked briskly) to the local drug store to buy what turned out to be the world’s smallest pair of stockings.  It took ten minutes of tugging and pulling and praying to get those bastards on in the bathroom, all the while gagging because the woman one stall over couldn’t say no to beans on her Hale and Hearty salad for lunch.

Truth be told, I made it out of the bathroom alive, but the damage was done.  I’m never wearing stockings (or looking at that woman the same way) again.

The One-Legged Thief

20 Apr

Be careful…there’s a criminal lurking in a laundry room near you…

I’m not crazy – at least, I don’t think I am.  When I buy socks, I know there are exactly two in the package.  There are two socks when I wear them, and there are two socks when I put them in the laundry.  But, when I take my clothes out of the dryer, two socks have morphed into one.

The system is flawed.  My life isn’t a Lance Burton’s magic show, so I know the washing machine isn’t performing a disappearing act.  The dryer isn’t possessed, and the socks aren’t walking down 8th Avenue by themselves.  There’s only one logical conclusion I can make for the constant evaporation and violation of my foot protectors.

Someone is breaking into the laundry room, using a crowbar to open the washer mid cycle, and taking what is rightfully mine.  And, to this person I only have one question – what did my right foot ever do to you?

For three years and seven months, my socks have been targeted, and I haven’t done a thing to protect them.  That’s about to stop as I come to cotton’s rescue.  The safety of our sock purchases must be guaranteed for us to move forward as a unified people.

Solving such a crime takes dedication, and I’ve been thinking about this since the last sock “vanished” two weeks ago.  (Please bow your head in silence.)  Although I’m no Perry Mason, I’m confident that a one-legged thief is behind this random act of unkindness.  Think about it.  Who else would steal only half of a pair?  The only rational explanation for taking one sock as opposed to two is a sheer lack of necessity.

Though I generally trust my neighbors, it’s clear that this trust is undeserved.  I have no idea who is behind this building thievery, and therefore, must proceed with caution.  It scares me to think that all this time I’ve been loaning step ladders to and borrowing flour from potential sock connoisseurs.  How well do I really know these people?  Nobody can be trusted until this crime is solved and my belongings have been returned to their rightful owner.

I can’t sit by and watch one more undeserving sock get flailed onto the lonely pile of singles that’s accumulating on my dresser.  I will take down the culprit and defend the honor of my cold feet.  These eyes will know no rest until this mystery is solved.  Who’s with me!?