Up until recently, my PhD pen was the smartest in my household. That is, until my new socks set foot in the door. Not just any socks, they are smart socks. Smart Wool, to be precise.
According to their tag, they are PhD socks, and reputed to be “the smartest sock in the world.”
Well, I thought. We’ll see about that.
I had their IQ tested when we came home.
They are smart.
Smarter than even yours truly.
And no, I am not pulling the wool over your eyes.
I am not sure how my new socks got to be so smart. Perhaps they spent their time studying. Perhaps they stayed home from sock hops. Or maybe, they have analyzed the sock market.
At any rate, how they achieved their greatness is the least of my concerns. Instead, I feel I must look after my other socks. They are apt to feel jealous. Can I still mismatch my socks? I wondered.
Hard to believe—very little research has been done in this area. So I did something smart–I consulted with my socks.
Which was no small feat.
Especially since something was afoot in my sock drawer. Sweat socks, crew socks, red socks, blue socks. “Darn darn darn,” my holey socks said. Then they began to pray.
My cool socks said, “Whatever.” They think they are all that because they wick away moisture. They don’t have an appetite so much as an insatiable thirst. Whet by wet.
Two kinds of socks protested. “We have lofty aspirations,” one pair of knee socks told me. “We don’t want to have to compete with other socks high above the ankle.” My ragg knit hiking socks also socked it to me. “If your new socks are Smart Wool, what does that make us—stupid?”
I tried to reassure them. “We all have problems,” I said. After all, my pants have many hang-ups, and my sweaters refuse to come out of the closet.
But that’s another story.
Causes Eva Schlesinger Supports
Center For Young Women's Development
Alameda County Library Foundation